The Hayfield Times
by StarrySpark
Summary: Christine arrives at Hayfield High and decides to give journalism a try, but the competitive school newspaper is more than she bargained for. The school's mysterious resident ghost takes her under his wing and draws her into his dark world of music...
1. The New Student

Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera in any way, shape, or form.

The Hayfield Times

Chapter One

Christine Daae was nervous. Hayfield High School was the biggest school she had ever seen. She was used to being the new kid by now, as she had moved around a lot with her father, but she was feeling more nervous than usual. Perhaps it was the fact that she was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the main office, watching a strict-looking secretary frown at her records. She had been sitting there for a long time. Finally the secretary looked up at her.

"All right, Miss Daae, I need you to chose your electives," she said, handing Christine a pamphlet. "You can have two full-year electives, one full-year and one half-year, or four half-years."

Christine skimmed through the little pamphlet. Chorus and Theatre caught her eye, but she skipped over them, remembering what had happened the last time she signed up for music-based electives. She decided to take a full year of Latin, even though she knew she would never use Latin in the real world. She was having trouble deciding what to choose for her second elective. None of the classes seemed to interest her. Then she saw a little paragraph titled "Journalism". _Write articles for the school's famous newspaper, _The Hayfield Times_. Reporting, editing, and creative writing included. Students will also help make the yearbook._ That certainly sounded interesting. Christine had never tried writing before. She circled Journalism with the pen she had been given and handed the paperwork back to the secretary.

The secretary, whose name was Mrs. Willis, entered Christine's choices into her computer and printed out a schedule. She handed the sheet to Christine, along with a late pass. "Your homeroom and English room is trailer F-1," she said. "Many of your classes will be in trailers since the school is undergoing renovations. Your fellow classmates will be able to direct you to your other classrooms, but here's a map just in case. Welcome to Hayfield."

"Thank you," Christine said. She picked up her backpack and exited the main office. She noticed that on her schedule was a locker number and combination. She decided to look for her locker later, as she was already five minutes late for homeroom.

Trailer F-1 was Christine's English classroom. The other kids turned to look at her as she walked in late. Christine suddenly felt even more nervous. _Knock it off,_ she told herself. _You're sixteen years old. Stop being shy and nervous!_

"Hello…are you Christine Daae?" the teacher at the front of the room asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Christine answered politely.

"Have a seat anywhere, Christine," the teacher said. "I'm Mrs. Flipski. Class, say hello to Christine."

A general mumble of "Hi" filled the air. Christine sat down in an empty seat in the back.

"As I was saying," Mrs. Flipski said, "the auditions for the school musical have been cancelled because our poor theatre teacher, Mr. Opperly, has broken his arm. He will make an announcement when the auditions are back on."

"Madame Flipski," a blonde girl in the front called out in a thick French accent. "What eez ze reazon for Monsieur Opperlee's eenjury? Was eet ze ghost?"

The room was very quiet. Christine was puzzled. A ghost?

"I don't know what happened to Mr. Opperly," Mrs. Flipski said nervously. "It might have been the ghost. But it isn't right to gossip about it. You can all go early. If anyone stops you in the halls, tell them that Mrs. Flipski couldn't stand having you in her class a moment longer. I'll see you all in fourth period!"

The sniggering class rose from their seats. Christine looked at her schedule. She had Journalism first period. She looked at the map to see where she was going, but found that it was poorly drawn and very confusing. Christine sighed and got up. She could tell already that this was going to be a long day.

Somehow, Christine found her way to the Journalism room before the bell rang. She expected to see desks, a few computers, and a chalkboard. What she didn't expect to see was a vast labyrinth of cubicles, several telephones, forty stacks of newspapers, and a big whiteboard with a deadline chart on it.

"Hey! Are you the new kid?" a girl sitting at a large desk in the front of the room asked. A large sign on the desk said "EDITOR".

"Yes! I'm Christine Daae," Christine answered, walking over to the desk and shaking the editor's hand.

"Hi, I'm Sandy. Nice to meet ya'," the editor said. "All right…ever been in a journalism class before?"

"No," Christine admitted.

"Good!" Sandy said briskly. "Fresh meat." She dug through her desk and pulled out some paperwork. "We take Journalism really seriously here. We issue newspapers every Wednesday, so we're pretty busy. Here's last week's paper." She brandished a thick paper in front of Christine's nose.

"It looks like _The Washington Post!_" Christine commented, examining the newspaper. It looked like a real newspaper!

"I know it does," Sandy said shortly. "You're going to have to work hard to do well in this class, kid. This isn't just a class. It's a business. Half of our profits go to the Student Council Administration, and the other half pays for our materials. I hope you're up to scratch on your writing skills."

Christine was rather intimidated by Sandy's attitude. She was afraid to say that she had no experience at all in writing.

"Here, you'll have to fill this out before you're issued a Press Pass," Sandy said, shoving the pile of paperwork into Christine's hands. She pushed a button on the telephone on her desk. "Meg?" she said into the speakerphone. There was no answer. Sandy tried again. "Meg, pick up." She got very angry. "Meg Giry, pick up the phone! I know you can hear me! Don't pull that 'technical difficulties' crud on me again!" The phone was silent. Sandy huffed. She got up from her desk and marched over to the cubicles. "MEG!" she bellowed into the aisle.

"What?" The blonde girl from Homeroom poked her head out of a cubicle. Her French accent was gone.

"GET YOUR BUTT OVER HERE!" Sandy yelled.

"Okay." The girl sounded completely carefree. She walked casually up to the seething editor.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" Sandy snarled.

"My phone never rang," Meg said with a smart-alecky kind of tone.

Sandy rolled her eyes. "Here," she said, pushing Christine into the aisle. "Have an apprentice."

"Oooh, goody!" Meg said, clapping her hands. "It's Christine, isn't it? You're in my homeroom."

"Yeah," Christine replied.

"Get back to work," Sandy grumbled. She was already back at her desk.

"Come on, Christine," Meg said happily. "I'll show you around." She poked her head around the wall of another cubicle. "Hey, guys! Come meet Christine!"

Meg introduced Christine to everyone in the class and then proceeded to show her around the room. Behind the vast labyrinth of cubicles was a lounge complete with vending machines, a room that contained a printing press, and an enormous closet where every single edition of _The Hayfield Times_ was archived. Christine learned that Meg was an aspiring actress, so she sometimes spoke in weird accents. Her impressions of Sandy the Editor were a favorite among the other journalists.

"So…is there actually a teacher in this place?" Christine asked when she and Meg arrived back at Meg's cubicle.

Meg shrugged. "Somewhere," she said nonchalantly. "Ms. Goermann, or Ms. G., as we call her, never seems to be anywhere. I personally think she stays at home and telecommutes or something."

"How very strange," Christine mused. She looked down at the slightly-crumbled paperwork in her hands. "I guess I'd better fill this out…"

"Come in, I'll find you a place to sit," Meg offered. Her cubicle turned out to be very messy. Meg, like Sandy the Editor, had a large teacher's desk, but it was covered in paper and rubber bands. Meg unfolded a folding chair and set it in the corner. "You don't get a cubicle of your own until you get promoted," she said apologetically. "For now you'll just have to sit in here with me."

A telephone rang from somewhere under a pile of old newspapers. "I thought you said the telephone didn't work," Christine said suspiciously.

"You believed me? My acting skills are getting better!" Meg said mischievously before pulling a receiver out of the mess and saying, "Hayfield Times." She listened as the person on the other end spoke. "Really? What did he do this time? Dang. That's not gonna be cheap to fix! All right, I'll get Joe to go cover it. Thanks for the tip." She hung up.

"What happened?" Christine asked instantly.

"They're having some trouble down in the Drama department," Meg informed her as she shoved a pile off newspaper clippings off the phone. "The ghost knocked down a bunch of old set pieces and broke the curtain mechanisms, the lighting, and the Drama sub's arm."

"What's all this nonsense about a ghost?" Christine asked, wrinkling her nose. "Is Hayfield haunted?"

Meg looked up at her mysteriously. "You bet, sister," she said, one eyebrow raised. "Hayfield is definitely haunted…by the Phantom of the Fine Arts! More commonly known as the Drama Ghost."

Christine felt a shiver go down her spine. "You…believe in him?" she asked quietly.

"Of course I do!" Meg said, looking almost offended. "You'd be crazy not to! The Drama Ghost has been haunting this school for, like, forever! I can't remember when he started…must've been about a year and a half before I came here. But he's still here, and he runs the school. He breaks things, breaks people, hacks into Hayfield's private info, all the good stuff."

"Why haven't the police gotten involved?" Christine asked, completely ignoring her paperwork now.

"They have!" Meg said. "They can't find him. He disappears without a trace. It's like he was never here to start with. I think he lives in the school, in all those nooks and crannies and corners that no one knows about. But I'm just guessing."

"How very strange," Christine said, bending over her paperwork again. "So you're going to go check out the Drama department scene?"

"I was going to get Joe to do it," Meg said thoughtfully, scratching her nose, "but then again I haven't covered anything important in a while. Maybe I should do it. Yeah, I will. You can come with me and start your training. Are you finished with that form yet?"

"No," Christine said. She started writing again.

"Faster, woman, faster!" Meg roared. "Write! Write! Write! Come on, time stops for no reporter! Hurry- oh. Done? Good, come on!" She dragged Christine over to the back of the room, where she shoved the paperwork into a filing cabinet and grabbed a slip of paper from another drawer.

"What's this?" Christine asked, accepting the paper from Meg.

"It's your temporary press pass," Meg told her. "The only one who's technically allowed to issue them is Ms. G., but since she's not around, it's okay. Let's go!" She raced toward the door. "Let's move, Christine! We've got to get there before the Journalism Club does!"

"What's the Journalism Club?" Christine asked, panting in her efforts to keep up with Meg.

"Our mortal enemies," Meg said dryly as she turned a corner. She jumped onto the railing of a staircase and slid down it. Christine took the stairs. "They meet after school and put together this cruddy pamphlet called _The Hayfield Connection_. It's not as good a newspaper as ours is, but they sell it for fifty cents less than ours! We've done really bad financially in the past 'cause the JC sold better papers then we did. But this year they got a really big budget cut so the school could pay for the renovations. We're back on top!"

"Then why are we running?" Christine gasped.

"So we can rub it in the JC's faces!" Meg shouted. She opened a janitorial closet and stepped inside. "Come on, in here!"

"Why?" Christine puffed, totally out of breath.

"See for yourself," Meg said mysteriously. Christine entered the closet, and Meg shut the door behind them. "Come on, this way!" Meg started moving to the back of the closet. Christine followed, wondering why on earth Meg would want to be in a smelly closet like this. Finally Meg stopped, and Christine almost bumped into her. "Welcome to the stage, my dear Christine!"

"Wow…" Christine whispered. The closet led straight into the wings of the stage.

"That's Mr. Henfricks, the principal of the tenth grade," Meg said, pointing to a man with a walkie-talkie, who was watching what appeared to be the Drama class. "He's the one we need to talk to. You stand back a little bit; people get uncomfortable when reporters crowd around them." She marched up to Mr. Henfricks with a charming smile on her face and asked for some information. Christine couldn't stop herself from giggling when Meg shoved a tape recorder under Mr. Henfricks' nose.

Christine took a look around the auditorium. It had just been renovated, so everything was brand new. Rows upon rows of purple chairs lined the audience. The stage was painted black, and it slightly reflected the bright lights that shone onto it. Christine smiled. She loved stages and reveled in the limelight. She found herself wishing she had signed up for theater instead of Latin, but she caught herself. She just couldn't go through another episode like that…

A creaking sound overhead made Christine look up. Suspended above the stage were catwalks that swayed slightly as though someone had just walked over them. They were accessible by a tall spiral staircase that she longed to climb.

_You should be listening to Meg_, a guilty voice in Christine's head said. She turned back to watch her new friend, but couldn't help looking up when the catwalks creaked again.

Somebody out in the audience shrieked. Christine jumped.

"He's here!" the girl yelled, pointing towards Christine.

Meg wheeled around. "Oh my God!" she screamed. "It's him- the Phantom of the Fine Arts!"

Christine jumped around to see a tall, cloaked, hooded figure behind her. She stepped back quickly, her legs turning to lead. She hadn't believed in the Drama Ghost before, but she was certainly a believer now! She couldn't see the ghost's face, but she was sure that red eyes were glaring hungrily at her from beneath that hood.

The ghost took a step forward. Then he took another step. Soon he was right in front of Christine, who was too petrified to move. "Hello," he whispered. "You must be Christine."

...

A/N: Thanks for taking a look at The Hayfield Times! Just to let you know, this is my second phic ever. I'd appreciate it if you took a peek at my other story, The Phantom Angel. I would really, really appreciate your reviews! Feedback is important- it motivates me to write more! So if you ever want to read the end of this phic, please review! If you think it's a dumb story and that it should go down the toilet…just don't review. Don't flame me, please! If I don't get any reviews I'll take a hint. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Drama Ghost

Disclaimer: If I were Gaston Leroux, I could say that I owned the Phantom of the Opera. If I were Andrew Lloyd Webber I could say that I owned the musical. I'm neither of those two people, so…you get the idea.

* * *

Chapter Two

Christine blinked, astounded. She had expected the Drama Ghost's voice to be an ugly hiss, but it was actually a smooth, rich whisper.

"Welcome to Hayfield High," the ghost whispered, taking a step closer to Christine. "Welcome to my kingdom of the arts."

Christine let the ghost's voice wash over her, taking in the soft warmth of the sound. It sounded welcoming and familiar, yet dark and mysterious. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sound of his voice.

"Christine!"

Christine's eyes snapped open. She had forgotten that there were other people in the room. Meg's outburst reminded her that she was talking to a criminal…

"Security, we've got a Code Black on the stage!" Mr. Henfricks yelled into his walkie-talkie.

The Drama Ghost laughed. It was an evil laugh, the kind that villains practice in their spare time. "As you can see, mademoiselle, I'm not very popular amongst my subjects. In fact, they created a special code just for me. When the school is alerted of a Code Black, they know I've made an appearance at center stage."

"Are you French?" Christine whispered curiously. She couldn't help herself; the word "mademoiselle" had sparked her imagination. She could just tell that the Phantom was raising an eyebrow at her.

"Perhaps," was his only reply. Suddenly, there was a bang and a puff of smoke, and he was gone. Coughing, Christine realized that there was a trapdoor inches from where she was standing. She peered into it, but it closed before she could get a good look inside.

"Christine!" Meg shrieked, running over to her intern. She grabbed Christine by the shoulders and shook her. "You never communicate with the Drama Ghost! Never! The first rule you have to learn here is that if you see the Drama Ghost you run! Do you understand me?"

"Yes!" Christine yelped, rather taken aback. "Let go of me, jeez! I'm not five!"

"Christine, the Drama Ghost is dangerous!" Meg wailed. "He's almost killed people! Why'd he take an interest in you, anyway? What'd you do?"

"Nothing!" Christine insisted. "I swear!"

Meg sighed wearily. "You don't understand."

"I understand completely!" Christine retorted.

Meg shook her head. "No, you don't understand at all. If you really understood how dangerous he is, you'd be scared right now. Scared to death!"

Christine shrugged. "I guess I don't understand, then. I don't get why you're so scared."

"They never do," Meg whispered, not looking at Christine. "Come on. We'd better get back to class before the bell rings." She exited stage right, her baffled intern trailing behind.

* * *

"Christine! Hey, Christine!"

Christine wheeled around to see Meg fighting her way through the crowd toward her. "Hey, Meg!"

"Hi!" Meg panted, leaning against Christine's new locker. "All right…wanted to point out some people to you." She surveyed the crowd and pointed out a tall girl with red hair and way too much makeup. "That chick is Carlotta, and she stars in all the school musicals. She's not a really good singer though, and she's pretty much a biotch. That poor guy standing in her shadow is Piangi, her boyfriend. He doesn't speak-a de Eeenglish too good." Meg said the last sentence with an Italian accent.

"Okay…" Christine said, committing the faces to memory.

"Lessee…those two blokes are Richard Firmin and Giles Andre, and they want to take over our Journalism class. As much as I hate Sandy, she's definitely a better editor-manager than they are. Okay, that librarian over there is Mrs. Giry, yes, she is my mother, but I try to ignore her. Why? Because she's weird. Okay? Okay. Let's move on…"

Meg turned to the other side of the hallway. "Oh, look. Here comes the football team. Yeah, typical jocks. Good at throwing balls, but can't think for the world. That tall guy with the shaggy, brown hair and the Redskins jersey is the quarterback. He goes by 'Da Flattener', but his real name is…"

"Raoul!" Christine finished for her, gaping happily. "Oh my gosh, it's Raoul Chagny!"

"How do you know his name?" Meg asked curiously.

"We went to elementary school together!" Christine whispered blissfully. "Up to the third grade! He used to call me Little Lotte. I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts. But then I moved, and I never saw him again…" She looked up hopefully as the team passed by, but Raoul didn't even glance at her. Christine smiled glumly and shrugged. "He wouldn't recognize me."

"He didn't see you!" Meg insisted. "You know what? I'm going to make sure he sees you! Chagny! Hey, Chagny!"

By that time, the blushing Christine had disappeared and was well on her way to fourth period English.

* * *

After being in Journalism for three weeks, Christine had learned a lot about the way the class was run. Actually, it wasn't really a class. Christine saw the elusive Ms. G. once during the three weeks, and that was when the teacher was giving her new student her press pass, which was a thick, laminated card that came on a lanyard. No lessons were taught except through hands-on experience. It was all business. Reporters reported, editors edited, and low status students (i.e. Christine) were given the "messy" jobs like folding newspapers.

"I hate this job," Christine grumbled. She fumbled with a newspaper that didn't want to fold. "Have you seen a spare front page lying around?" she asked Meg, who was smirking at her from the doorway of the little closet.

Meg tossed her a page. "Here. I remember when I had this job…ages ago."

Christine scowled at her. "Why can't I do this during class? Why do I have to stay after school and spend hours doing seemingly pointless work when I have nothing to do during school hours?"

"Because the paper wasn't printed then," Meg reminded her triumphantly. "Keep going- there's a lot left to do in the press room." She spun around and walked away. "I'm going to the library! Everyone else went home already, so you're here alone!"

Christine sighed and finished folding the pile of newspapers. She trudged over to the press room to find that all the newspapers had already been folded and stacked neatly around the printing press. She wondered who did it until she spied a rose sitting on top of a pile. When she picked it up she found that there was a black ribbon tied around the stem.

Christine smiled, almost sheepishly. "Thank you, Drama Ghost," she whispered, looking around the room. "I don't know who you are, but I really appreciate your help." She turned to leave.

"_Christine…_"

Christine wheeled around, her heart beating fast.

"_Christine…_"

"Are you…the Drama Ghost?" Christine whispered, looking around the room with wide eyes.

A snort made her jump. "Rather. I'm frankly partial to music. The other forms of art don't interest me much."

Christine didn't know what to say to this. The ghost spoke again in her silence.

"What about you? Do you like music?"

"Yes," Christine whispered. "Very much."

"Do you sing?"

"I used to," Christine replied quietly. "I don't anymore."

"Why not?"

"It's a long story…" Christine didn't want to talk about it.

"The late buses don't arrive for another hour," the ghost said. "You've got plenty of time. Unless you have something else to do."

"What else would I do?" Christine mumbled. "Study for that Latin quiz? No thanks!"

"You don't like Latin?"

Christine made a face. "Not really. The fact that it's a dead language kind of throws me off. I only signed up for it because my mother used to go around talking in Latin." She didn't know why she was telling the ghost all this, but it somehow seemed perfectly natural.

"Really? Why did she speak in Latin?"

Christine paused for a moment. She felt tears come to her eyes. "I…I don't remember," she whispered. "It was so long ago… She died when I was in fifth grade." She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry.

"What happened?" The ghost sounded slightly sympathetic.

Christine wiped her eyes. She never liked to talk about this, but she just couldn't hold it in any longer. She had to tell someone! "I was in the school musical. I had gotten the lead, which usually went to a sixth grader. On the performance night, my mother, father, and I arrived at school, and I realized that I'd forgotten part of my costume. My mother went home to get it, but she didn't get back before the show started. So I was up there singing a solo, and I couldn't help seeing the clock." She let out a small sob. Her voice started sounding like a whine. "It was 6:34 p.m. At that same exact time my mother's car was run off the road by a drunk driver. She was…" Christine gulped. "She was dead before the car came to a stop!"

"I'm so sorry…"

"I just can't help but feel that it was my fault," Christine hiccupped, tears streaming out of her eyes. "If I had never gotten that part…"

"It was not your fault!" The ghost sounded angry. "You said so yourself- a drunk driver ran her car off the road."

"I know," Christine whispered miserably. "But I was the reason she was out on the road to begin with."

"So is this why you don't sing anymore?"

"Yes," Christine said. She snuffled. "The guilt burns hotter than any fire. And when I sing I remember that clock on the wall…my eyes were drawn to it that night! I couldn't look away. I knew something bad was going to happen." She was silent for a moment. "My mother loved to sing. She used to sing me to sleep. My favorite song was called "Sailing the Stars". She had the most beautiful voice."

The ghost didn't say anything. Christine thought for a moment that he had left, but then she heard something strange...music. She immediately recognized the sound of a violin. The tune it was playing was beautiful, sad, and familiar…

The ghost started singing. His voice was strong, quiet, mysterious, and confident. Christine listened and felt her sadness leave. She dried her tears and felt the music fill her up to the brim with happiness. It was like he was casting a spell over her… Christine closed her eyes in bliss and fell to her knees. Her head swung back to face the ceiling as she sang the last few lines along with the ghost.

"_If I could then I would take out_

_That boat of ours,_

_And then we'd go sailing,_

_Sailing the stars…_"

"That was beautiful," Christine whispered. "Simply beautiful." She sat in silence for a moment, savoring her feelings bliss. Then she had to ask it… "Are you an angel?"

"What?" the ghost laughed.

"An angel," Christine repeated. "The Angel of Music."

"What makes you think I'm the Angel of Music?"

Christine smiled. "Your music couldn't possibly come from this world. My mother always used to tell me stories about a girl named Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. She promised me that when she was in Heaven she would send the Angel to watch over me. I think you're that angel."

"Christine, Christine, so sweet and innocent," the ghost whispered. "If you want me, then I will be your Angel of Music."

Christine smiled. "My Angel of Music…"

"YO CHRISTINE! MEG'S IN DA HOUSE!"

"MEG!" Christine shrieked. She knew her angel would have disappeared by now. "Meg, you freakin' ruined the moment!"

"What moment?" Meg peeked inside the room. "Wow, you got those folded really fast! Here's an idea- let's go get a slushie at the gas station. I'll drive you home you home then."

Christine sighed. "All right. I just have to clean up quick."

"Kay. I'll meet ya outside the school in my _new_ convertible!" Meg said, winking and clapping her hands like some weird seal-cheerleader mix. She skipped (actually _skipped!_) away. Christine sighed again and picked up the rose. She glanced around the room, than exited, hugging the rose to her chest.

* * *

A/N: Sorry it took so long for me to update! I've been really busy this week...two band concerts, after-school band rehearsal, project, exam, quizzes, homework, masquerade dance, Scouts, orthodontist (ugh...torture). Here's chapter two- questions? comments? concerns? As always, reviews are appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	3. The Woes of a Fired Editor

Disclaimer: I don't own the book. I don't own the musical. I don't own the movie. I don't own that weird Lon Chaney guy who doesn't make any noise… Pretty much, when it comes to owning PotO I strike out.

Also…I don't own Adobe InDesign. For those of you who don't know, InDesign is a computer program that allows you to make newspaper pages. It's cool, but I don't own it. I don't own the Associated Press, either. The AP is a media organization. If you want a full explanation check out their website. Anyway, the journalists of Hayfield use their writing style. I did create the Associated Press Hayfield Branch... I don't think the AP has branches in high schools.

* * *

Chapter Three

Christine tiptoed through the dank cellars, pushing her cart quickly in front of her. She had made it well known that she didn't want to be down there, but Sandy had insisted on it. That darn Sandy! Christine wondered, not for the first time, why a janitor couldn't bring all the junk down here. It was one of the many mysteries of the world. Christine couldn't shake off the feeling that she was being watched.

"Here we go…good riddance!" Christine muttered as she dumped the cart of empty ink cartridges, used-up rolls of paper, several soda cans, and Meg's telephone into a trash bin. After thinking about it for a second, she heaved the cart itself into the bin. If Sandy wanted her precious little table-on-wheels, she could come down here and get it herself!

As she turned to leave, Christine once again got the feeling that she was being watched. Suddenly, and without warning, the lights went out. Christine screamed and backed up against the trash bin. Her heart beating like a bass drum, she looked into the blackness, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She started freaking out when she couldn't see her hand in front of her face.

"Somebody help me!" she shrieked, tears pouring out of her eyes. "Somebody, anybody! Help!" Breathing hard, she listened for any reply.

"_Wandering child so lost, so helpless…_"

Christine froze. A deep, entrancing voice called to her from somewhere in the depths of the darkness. Without thinking, she moved forward.

"_Yearning for my guidance…_"

Christine closed her eyes and walked, her hands outstretched. Totally trusting, completely confident, she stepped forward until her hands made contact with smooth leather.

"_Christine…_" The leather gloves closed around her hands and pulled her forward into a wall of warmth. Christine collapsed into the arms of her rescuer, whose strong arms kept her from sliding to the floor. She rested her chin on his shoulder. He stroked her hair and whispered comfortingly to her. "_It's all right, Christine. You're safe…_"

"How did you know I was down here?" Christine asked softly.

"_I've been watching you,_" her rescuer whispered into her ear_. "It's easy to get into trouble down here. I wouldn't want trouble to befall you…_"

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," Christine murmured, "but why did you come after _me_?"

The dark person laughed. "_Why wouldn't I come after you? You are the sweetest, most innocent person who ever attended this ghetto that they call a school._" One gloved hand held Christine securely around the waist. The other reached up and stroked the girl's pale cheek. Christine pressed her cheek against his smooth touch. "_I love you, Christine. Know that wherever you go, I will always watch over you. Oh, Christine…Christine…_"

"Christine? CHRISTINE!"

Christine jerked awake to see Meg staring at her oddly from her cluttered desk. "Stop drooling on my article!" Meg yelped. "I spent two hours on that!"

Christine tried to wipe her mouth inconspicuously. "I wasn't drooling!"

"Of course you weren't," Meg said sarcastically. "You were definitely daydreaming, though! What about?"

"I'm not telling you!" Christine said defensively. "No way in heck!"

Meg grinned. "You were dreaming about a guy!" she giggled in an annoying singsong voice. "And I bet I know who it was! It was Raoul Chagny!"

"Raoul? There's no way I was... Actually, he's hot, too," Christine sighed, a dreamy look coming over her face.

Meg giggled. She did that a lot. "Christine, Christine…so new to the world of boys. Am I right in assuming that you've never had a boyfriend?"

"Yeah," Christine confessed.

"Don't worry…you'll meet the right guy someday," Meg assured her. She looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. "So…did you finish editing that article before you flooded it?"

"I finished yesterday," Christine said, handing the article to Meg with a practiced annoyed expression on her face, getting ready to launch into her rehearsed speech. "I now officially have nothing to do. I am so freakin' bored, Meg! I've played enough Solitaire to last me three lifetimes, set the Minesweeper high score for eight seconds on beginner, emailed all my friends five times, and now I'm out of stuff to do! Can I write something? Please? I've been doing absolutely nothing for…what? Four weeks? Five? I want to write an article!"

Meg shrugged. "It's okay with me if it's okay with Sandy. She's in charge of that area, you know. Go ask her for a column or something."

Christine shrugged. "Okay. But if she bites my head off I'm suing you."

Meg smiled. "My aunt's a lawyer. I'll see you in court."

Christine walked down the narrow aisle between the cubicles and approached Sandy's desk. Sandy was currently scribbling frantically with a pen with one hand, typing quickly on the computer with another, and talking on two telephones at once. Christine had to wait ten minutes before she hung up. "Speak."

"Can I write an article?" Christine asked bluntly.

"No."

"Why not?" Christine wailed.

"There's no room in the paper, and I don't think your skills are up to scratch yet," Sandy replied without looking at Christine.

"But I've been here for four or five weeks and done absolutely nothing!" Christine argued.

"Cry me a river. Better yet, go join the Journalism Club."

Christine turned and stalked back to Meg's cubicle. "Biotch," she muttered under her breath.

"I heard that!"

"I know you did!"

Christine returned to the cramped office to find Meg talking on the phone, looking rather pale. "What's up?" she asked when Meg hung up.

Meg didn't say anything for a moment. She trembled, growing paler by the moment. Then she burst into tears, sobbing, "They're racking up my schedule!"

"Huh?" Christine sat down, raising an eyebrow at the over-dramatic Meg. "What are you talking about?"

Meg sniffled. "Well, the people down at the main office finally decided to solve the problem of overcrowded classrooms. How did they solve it? They moved poor, undeserving girls into other classrooms in other periods!"

"Sheesh," Christine muttered, cringing slightly. "How bad is it?"

"Horrible!" Meg wailed. "The only classes I didn't get removed from are Journalism and English!"

"What's your new schedule like?" Christine asked.

"Well," Meg started, consulting a small slip of paper, "I've got second period science…"

"I'm in that class!" Christine said happily.

"…and third period Trig…"

"I'm in that class, too!"

"…fourth period is still English. Fifth period is Gym…"

"Funny. I've got Gym fifth, too."

"I've got sixth period History and seventh period Art."

"I've got sixth period History, too, but I've got Latin seventh," Christine said, slightly suspiciously. "Why are you in all my classes but Latin?"

Meg shrugged miserably. "I don't know. You'd never catch me taking Latin… Latin's icky."

"No it's not!" Christine argued.

"Yes it is!"

"No it's not!"

"Yes it is. I'd never take Latin! Not even if someone held a gun to my head!" Meg said seriously, pointing at her head. The phone rang. She picked it up and answered, "Hayfield Times, Meg speaking. What? WHAT? EXCUSE ME? That's stupid! I refuse to take it! I…it's…oh, come on! That's freakin' stupid! Hello? Hello? Crap!" She hung up.

Christine grinned crazily. "No way! You did not just get signed up for Latin!"

Meg scowled. "Seventh period. Big surprise."

Christine burst out laughing, falling out of her chair and rolling on the floor. "_I'd never take Latin! Not even if someone held a gun to my head!_" she mimicked, howling with laughter.

"Shut up," Meg grumbled, looking surly.

Christine stood up. "Cheer up, Meg! Latin's not _that_ bad!"

"Yes it is!" Meg retorted.

"You haven't even tried it!" Christine pointed out. "You don't know a word of Latin! How can you tell if it's bad?"

"I know this," Meg said. "_Latina est maximus crapius!_"

"It is not!" Christine argued. "Latin is…Um…Latin is the uh…base of…um… many of the words in the…English lang- Okay, you're right. Maximus crapius."

The phone rang. Meg picked it up. "Hayfield Ti- WHAT? You got it, too? That's messed up. Man, that's terrible, Kaila! Yeah, they changed my schedule, too!" Meg listened for a minute. "That's STUPID! Gotta go, Kaila. Gotta make some phone calls."

"What's stupid?" Christine asked.

"They changed Kaila Towerson's schedule, too," Meg said, already dialing. "Get this- she has the same exact schedule that we do! Latin included!"

Christine rolled her eyes. "Heads are gonna roll."

Meg called the entire Journalism staff and found that everyone in the tenth grade had been given the exact same schedule. Nobody was happy about giving up one of his or her electives to take Latin. Everyone envied Christine because her schedule didn't change at all.

"This is not good," Meg muttered as she hung up the phone for the last time. "Something bad is going to happen. I can just tell…"

A bloodcurdling shriek rent the air. Christine and Meg scrambled over to the door to peek around the cubicle.

"NO!" Sandy was shrieking, out in the hallway. "NO! YOU CAN'T DO THAT! YOU IDIOTS CAN'T DO THAT!" She was silent for a moment, and Christine could hear someone talking softly. Another moment passed. Then- "STAFF MEETING! EVERYONE INTO THE CONFERENCE ROOM! EVERYONE! NOW, DAMMIT!"

Christine grinned. "Yay. I'm never allowed in staff meetings!"

"They're usually boring," Meg assured her, "but this one proves to be interesting! Come on."

Five minutes later, the entire Journalism staff was crowded into the conference room. Sandy stood at the front, seething at Richard Firmin, Giles Andre, and the guidance counselor, Mrs. Waver. Christine remembered that Firmin and Andre were the county student representatives of the Associated Press Hayfield Branch. That could only mean trouble…

"Well, it appears we are having a change in management!" Sandy hissed. "SOMEBODY mouthed off to the APHB about my methods of running the business!"

Christine couldn't help but notice how Meg had suddenly disappeared behind a large easel.

"Calm yourself, Sandy!" Mrs. Waver ordered. "I've said it before and I'll say it again; we are _not_ firing you! This is simply part of the Hayfield Under Construction- Inside and Out plan. Along with this, we're trying to fix the schedules of all our students so that they're-"

"SO THAT'S WHY YOU'RE JACKING UP OUR SCHEDULES!" Meg shrieked, jumping out from behind the easel. "I REFUSE TO TAKE LATIN!"

"Miss Giry, please contain yourself!" Mrs. Waver barked, covering her ears. "Latin is not optional! The entire student body is now taking it. The schedule changes are meant to make the newspaper, along with other teams and organizations, more efficient. All the staff members will be put together with the other staff members from their grade. This way you'll be able to-"

"But then why do I get fired?" Sandy interrupted. "Why do these bozos get the editorship?"

"_You're_ _not getting fired!_" Mrs. Waver said again, getting angrier by the second. "You've been editor for two and a half years, Sandy! The Handbook for Hayfield Clubs and Businesses says that's against the rules!"

"These two jerks will ruin the newspaper!" Sandy practically sobbed. "The _Times_ will never be the same!"

Mrs. Waver sighed and closed her eyes. Christine was sure she heard her mutter, "I need aspirin."

The bell rang, but nobody moved.

"Everybody go to your next class," Mrs. Waver ordered. "Remember to follow your new schedule. You'll be excused for not having the materials you need for Latin. Get going, people! You only have five minutes!"

Meg turned to glare at Christine. "I speak for the entire tenth grade Journalism staff when I ask, 'What do we have second period?'"

* * *

"Meg? What the heck are you doing?" Christine asked.

Meg currently had her head stuck as far back into her gym locker as she could. "I'm trying to smother myself with these toxic gasses," was her muffled reply.

"As disgustingly smelly as these lockers are, I don't think you'll be able to kill yourself with them," Christine said. She sat down on the bench and tied her shoelaces. "Fifth period gym isn't too bad."

"It's right after lunch!"

"Okay, that stinks. But there are a lot of cute guys…"

Meg pulled her head out of the locker. "How cute?"

"Well, the entire football team just got moved to fifth, and so did…"

"The _entire_ football team? Say no more, Chrissy- I'm sold!" Meg cried.

Christine smiled. "I know, Meg. I know."

"Hurry up!" Meg shouted, slamming her locker shut. "Tie faster! Faster! Let's go!" She pulled Christine off the bench and dragged her to the gym. There they stood ogling the boys from a safe distance. Or rather, Meg was ogling the boys. Christine was rolling her eyes.

"Did I tell you, though, that Mr. Cookley makes fifth period do pushups in bulk?"

"Say WHAT now?"

Christine was always tired by seventh period. She never fell asleep in class, though, unlike _somebody_ she knew…

"Meg! Wake up!"

Meg yawned and opened her eyes. "Is it 2:10 yet?"

Christine checked her watch. "No. It's only 1:30."

"Oh…my…GOD!" Meg hissed in agony, smacking her head on her desk. "WHY is time moving so slowly today?"

"It isn't."

"Miss Giry," the teacher, Miss Roses, called from the front of the room. "Since you seem so bored, why don't you string together a sentence with a noun, adjective, and verb?"

Meg blinked stupidly at her. "Uh…Latina est maximus crapius?"

* * *

"This is it."

"The moment we've all been waiting for."

"We've worked so hard for this one moment, so don't let us down!"

"They'll be pushovers, I just know it!"

"Go on, Christine! The time is now!"

Christine took a deep breath and stepped out of the labyrinth of cubicles. Her "support team" whispered encouragement to her. She glanced back at the group of anxious journalists and said, "Jeez, people…calm down!" She approached the desk that used to belong to Sandy, but which now was occupied by Firmin and Andre. However, a group of eleventh grade journalists beat her there.

"Firmin! Andre! We want a word," a girl named Dimmy Katmakos barked.

The new editors looked up suspiciously. "What?"

"This new rulebook ain't gonna fly," Dimmy announced. She slapped the pamphlet down on the desk. "Tell 'im why, Brendan."

A smart-looking guy with glasses and braces stepped forward, a red pen in hand. He opened the pamphlet to page five. "Firstly…we refuse to change our writing styles," he said matter-of-factly. "We've always used the Associated Press Style- we're not changing." He crossed out the paragraph. "Secondly…by no means are we lowering the price of the papers! It costs us approximately $200 each time we go to press. Our only profit is fifty measly dollars!" He scratched out the paragraph with a fury. "Thirdly…we can't keep up with your demands! There's no way we could print a paper three times a week- Twice would be pushing it! We don't have the time, money, or resources."

"Is that all?" Firmin grumbled.

"That's about it," Dimmy said, glaring down at the editors.

"I'll have you know that we refuse to change anything in this rulebook," Andre announced. He crossed his arms over his chest. "We can keep the AP Style, but everything else changes. We're in charge. We say what goes."

"Fine, then," Dimmy said calmly. "Then we (all ten of us) are leaving. We're going to change electives and then join the Journalism Club."

Dead silence met her words. Every staff member poked their head over the top of their cubicles to see what was going on.

"You can't leave!" Andre wailed. "Here- we'll compromise!"

"Nope. Already decided," Dimmy said, tossing her straight, black hair. "Come on, gang. Eleventh grade is out of Journalism."

Whispering and muttering broke out as all the eleventh graders left the room.

"It's too bad Ms. G. only shows her face once every ten thousand years," Christine heard Meg say. "Then this wouldn't have happened! None of it!"

Christine stepped forward apprehensively as the new editors watched some of their best reporters leave. "Hi!" she said brightly. "I'm Christine."

"What do you want?" Firmin sighed dully.

"Well, I was just thinking," Christine started, turning on the old charm. She grinned. "It looks like we just lost a lot of staff members. Since there won't be enough writers to cover the hole, why not let me write something? I'm not technically a reporter yet, but I'll do my best."

Andre and Firmin looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Firmin pushed the intercom button on his telephone. "Sandy! We need you!"

Sandy stepped out of her new little closet office and slammed the door behind her. Pasted onto her face was the biggest, ugliest scowl Christine had ever seen. "What?" she snapped.

"Ten writers just walked out on us," Andre told her. "Christine offered to write something. What do you think?"

"Absolutely not!" Sandy scoffed. "She's inexperienced in all aspects of writing, she's only been at this school for three weeks, and she's getting a B- in English. I say make her wait."

"Excuse me, Sandy," Christine cut in, "but I know much more about writing than I used to, I've been at this school for four and a half weeks, and it's an A-, FYI. I think I'm more than competent to write a simple news article."

"It's not a simple news article!" Sandy hissed. "This is _The Hayfield Times!_ This isn't Creative Writing or the Journalism Club! People _pay_ to read our paper. If all they get is cruddy work from an amateur-"

"You don't know how well I can write!" Christine retorted. "You've never read any of my work! Don't go assuming something that you know nothing about!"

"I've been with this business since my first day of high school!" Sandy growled, pointing an accusing finger at Christine. "Don't _you_ go assuming that I don't know what I'm talking about!"

"Listen, oh mighty expert!" Christine snarled. "You _don't_ know what you're talking about! I've learned just about every blasted thing I could possibly learn about Journalism! I know how to attribute quotes, I know how to conduct interviews, and I could work InDesign with my eyes closed!"

"ENOUGH!" Firmin bellowed, wisely. Apparently he could see that this was going to turn into one of those nasty situations that begin with harsh insults and end with a catfight. "Sandy, give her a column! She's the best we can get right now."

"But-"

"DO IT!" the editors roared in unison.

Sandy scowled and stalked back to her closet office. She came back out with a dummy copy of that week's _Times_. She flipped through to page eight and pointed at a small column in the bottom, left-hand corner. "There! Page eight! 250 words or less!" she raged. Then she turned on her heel and retreated to her tiny office, slamming the door behind her.

"YES!" Christine cheered, punching her fist into the air.

* * *

A/N: Hey, people! Long time no update! Sorry…as usual of late, my weekend was bogged down with all sorts of interesting but time-consuming stuff. Here's Chapter Three…not a lot of Phantom action, but don't worry…he's bound to show up again. He is the Drama Ghost, after all. The quote "Latina est maximus crapius" came to my attention through Chelsea Skywalker, who says someone in her class made it up. Thanks! Please review! Thanks to all my reviewers- you guys rock! Thanks for reading The Hayfield Times!

P.S. …you know where Christine's article is? Page eight, bottom left-hand corner, tiny column? That's where my article's going in my school newspaper…


	4. The Article

Disclaimer: Listen, my children, and you shall hear, of a mysterious phantom who all learned to fear. In the year of two thousand and four, there is hardly a phan who could ask more of Andrew Lloyd Webber and his sheer…brilliance. Yes, that means ALW owns the musical, not me. And Gaston Leroux owns the original book. Sorry, Monsieur Leroux…I don't feel like writing any more poetry.

* * *

Chapter Four

"I got it! I got it! I got it!" Christine sang, doing her little happy dance. "I got it! I got it! I got-"

"Root beer on me!" Meg announced, carrying an armful of bottled root beer into her cubicle, which was immediately swarmed by their closest friends. It was a lively party, even though they didn't have a lot to celebrate. Kaila Towerson suggested singing "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow", but Meg objected.

"We can't sing that until she gets promoted!" she insisted. "And that brings us to the important matter of this gathering…lights, please!"

The lights flicked off. Several people who were actually working shouted complaints, but Meg paid them no heed. She turned on a flashlight and held it under her chin, making a grotesque face. "MUAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!" she cackled. "Nah, I'm just kidding." She shone the light in Christine's face. "Christine Daae! You are about to start a perilous journey, and Journalism Law states that you must be initiated in the proper fashion. Are you ready to begin?"

"Sure, whatever," Christine muttered, squinting and shielding her face. "Would you mind shining that somewhere else? Thanks."

Meg set the flashlight on her desk so that it shone on the ceiling, the closest thing they could get to a bonfire. "We shall begin now," she announced gravely, looking at Christine with a serious expression. "Are all the council members present? Wait a second, where's Sam?"

"Sammy? I think she's absent today," Kaila said.

"No, she isn't!" Jessie cut in. "She's here. SAM!" she bellowed, poking her head out of the cubicle. "Samantha Marjon, get your butt over here!"

"I'm coming! Jeez!" Sam's voice shouted from the other side of the room. "There's no reason to use my full name!"

"Be happy I didn't say your middle name!" Jessie yelled. "I will, if you don't get over here now!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Sam crashed through the narrow aisle and squeezed, panting, into the throng. She glared at Jessie, who smiled cutely and wrinkled her nose.

"All right, now that all the council members are _finally_ present," Meg said, shooting an angry glare at Sam, "we can begin the ritual."

"_The ritual!_" the other journalists echoed in a hushed whisper.

"Okay, guys? This is really wei-" Christine started, but Meg cut her off.

"Do not speak! You will ruin the spiritual balance of the ritual!"

"_The ritual!_" everyone echoed. Christine rolled her eyes.

"Christine Daae, in order to join us among the ranks of reporters, you must write an article for our newspaper, _The Hayfield Times!_" Meg announced. "Your article must be superb, popular, and error-free at all costs! You must find a topic that will interest and intrigue all readers, no matter what their interests are. You must write a news article, for any doofus can write a feature or opinion. It takes a writer of supreme caliber to write a news article worthy of _The Hayfield Times!_ Do you accept your challenge, young intern?"

"Ummmmmm…sure." Christine backed away from the slightly-maniacal Meg.

"Then from this moment onward you are on the clock!" Meg shouted. "We go to press on Wednesday, after school! That gives you FOUR days to find a topic, FOUR DAYS to write an article, and FOUR DAYS to edit it! FOUR! That is, unless you count Wednesday before we print, and I don't, so FOUR! In case I didn't stress it enough earlier, F-O-U-R! F-O-U-R! _FOUR!_"

"I get it!" Christine yelped, ducking. Meg was now lashing out at Christine with a folded-up newspaper, punctuating each letter of the word "four" with a swipe.

"No, you don't!" Meg roared, hitting Christine even harder. "If you got it you would be running for your life right now! You would be anxiously scouring this school for a newsworthy topic! You would be…hey, give that back!"

The "council members" had grabbed Meg's newspaper in an attempt to save the poor intern. "Pipe down, Meg! Give her a chance to breathe!"

"Fine," Meg growled. She suddenly looked thoughtful. "I feel like I'm forgetting something…"

"_Confetti!"_ the journalists roared. About a ton of confetti poured down onto Christine's head. Christine shrieked and brushed herself off frantically, which didn't work.

"WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT FOR?" she bellowed.

"Good luck," Meg said, grinning broadly. "It's part of the ritual."

"_The ritual!_"

"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU! ARGH!" Christine grabbed the confiscated newspaper and started whacking Meg over the head.

"It's just a little confetti!" Meg wailed, cowering in the corner. "Stop spazzing out!"

"A _little_ confetti?" Christine gasped, absolutely seething. "Meg, you freakin' drenched me in the stuff!"

"Okay, so maybe it was a lot. But that's okay. Everyone's going to help clean up, right?" Meg looked up hopefully at her friends. At that moment, the bell rang, and all the journalists disappeared. Christine grabbed her backpack and stormed out of the cubicle.

"Good luck cleaning that up," she snarled. "You've got five minutes. And check your email tonight. I plan to send you a lengthy email full of insults, obscenities, and a list of how many times you broke the school rules with your stupid ritual."

"_The ritual!_"

"SHUT…UP!"

* * *

Christine opened the door and stepped into the dark, deserted Journalism room. It was lunchtime, and anyone in their right mind would be stuffing their face with the French Silk Pie that the cafeteria served on Friday. Christine could just imagine the smooth chocolate on her tongue, and wished she could be downstairs enjoying it. But alas, she couldn't. Christine had forgotten her cell phone in Meg's cubicle.

"YEEOWCH!" Christine howled, jumping up and down on one foot, holding the other. Somehow she had managed to stub her toe on a desk that was twenty feet to the left of the door. She doubled back and flipped the light switch, illuminating the labyrinth of cubicles. Limping slightly, she trudged through to Meg's workspace, which was full of the usual clutter, not to mention ten tons of confetti.

"When I get my own cubicle, I'm going to be so organized that Meg will look like a pig," Christine grumbled as she sifted through piles of paper. "And I'll never _ever_ bring any confetti in. Oooooooh…Meg's diary!" She pulled the little book out and flipped through Meg's tales of woes, joys, and boys.

"_Is your coworker's private information interesting?_" The lights flicked off, plunging Christine into complete darkness.

Christine squeaked and jumped, the book flying from her hands. "It's not what it looks like!" she shouted immediately, then realized she was alone. "Oh…Angel, is that you?"

"_Yes, Christine, it's me. Why are you scrounging through Meg Giry's possessions?_"

"I was looking for my cell phone," Christine said, hanging her head guiltily. "I…I guess a have an insatiable curiosity. I couldn't resist the thought of Meg's diary."

"_Either that or you're just nosy_." Christine couldn't tell if the Angel was reprimanding her or just expressing amusement, so she said nothing. She heard something fall to the ground with a soft thump. "_Here._" She picked the object up and found it was her missing cell phone.

"Thank you!" she said happily, tucking it away in her purse.

"_I heard you got a space in the newspaper._"

Christine itched her scalp and shuddered as bits of confetti fell out of her hair. "Yes, that's right. The others put me through their silly ritual."

"_Have you thought of anything to write about?_"

Christine shook her head. "No. But I've got time. I'll figure something out over the weekend, probably. That'll give me a few days to write my article, which should be just enough time."

"_Yes, especially for such an accomplished journalist like you. If I recall correctly, you know how to attribute quotes, you know how to conduct an interview, and you can work InDesign with your eyes closed. Writing should be easy._" Christine smiled as the sarcasm dripped from the ceiling and landed in a pool at her feet. She shrugged.

"Well, I _can_! That stuff's easy. I don't suppose writing would be…" she broke off, feeling the color drain from her face.

"_What's wrong?_"

"I can't write!" Christine wailed. "I don't know how! I put on such a big show about my hidden talents, and now those two blokes will realize I was bluffing! Oh, I'm an idiot! I have no idea how to write an article! I can write research papers and stuff like that, but an article? Sandy was right…"

"_I could help you._"

Christine froze. She looked up at the ceiling. "You could? Can you write?"

A laugh followed her words. "_My dear, I think you forget that I am not just your Angel of Music. I'm the Drama Ghost, the Phantom of the Fine Arts! The master of all forms of art, the ruler of all creativity! Of course I can write._"

Christine bowed her head. "Of course. Forgive me, Angel, I forgot."

"_You are forgiven. I will help you write your article, but we must meet here, during lunch. Every other day, starting on Monday. You must have no distractions. No missing lessons, no being late for lessons, no iPods or cell phones during lessons…and no boyfriends ever. You'll become the best writer this school has ever seen. _"

"Thank you, Angel," Christine whispered excitedly. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as her stomach grumbled loudly.

"_Go get some French Silk Pie_," her Angel ordered. Christine smiled and happily obliged.

* * *

"Five, four, three, two, one…now!" Complete silence met Meg's countdown.

"Your watch is a few minutes off," Christine informed her.

Meg scratched her head and frowned at her watch. "But I set it when the bell rang this morning! The bell should have rung ten, eleven, twelve seconds ago!"

The bell rang, signaling the beginning of fifth period. Christine and Meg continued down the hallway to the girls' locker room at a leisurely pace. Since they went to change before the teacher took attendance, there was no way any student could be late for gym. When they reached the locker room, however, the two girls met a big crowd of both boys and girls standing around the locked door.

"May I have your attention, please?" somebody shouted from the center of the crowd. Christine stood on tiptoe and saw the two gym teachers, Mr. Cookley and Mr. Sonic, trying to quiet down the crowd. Fed up, Mr. Cookley stuck his whistle in his mouth and covered his ears, delivering a sharp, loud blast that quieted everyone immediately.

"Finally!" Mr. Sonic grumbled. "Took you long enough!"

"Everybody drop and give me twenty!" Mr. Cookley bellowed.

Groaning, everyone got down on the dirty floor and followed his orders.

"All right, I have an announcement to make!" Mr. Sonic announced when they were done. "The administration is changing the schedules again! Fifth period will now be having gym fourth period, before lunch instead of after. Your fourth period class will become your fifth period class. Nobody will be taking Latin anymore. Instead, you have a full year of General Music."

"Like what we took in elementary school?"

Christine jumped as she realized Raoul Chagny was standing right next to her. She barely heard Mr. Cookley answer his question; she was too busy staring at Raoul's green eyes.

"Yes, very much like what you took in elementary school," Mr. Coakley told him. "Singing, dancing, recorders…" Everyone groaned.

"If I'd wanted to sing I would've signed up for chorus!" Meg grumbled.

"They need to stop messing up our schedules," Christine muttered darkly. She did not want to sing. _Did not_.

"We won't be dressing out today! Just go to the gym and hang out for the rest of the period," Mr. Sonic ordered.

In the gym, the students talked for a few minutes about the injustices of the administration. Then the people who had iPods pulled them out and blocked out the unlucky people who didn't. Christine was one of those unlucky people. She declined Meg's offer to share her earbuds so that she could study for the pop quiz she was sure to have in History. Suddenly, her cell phone started vibrating. She found that somebody had text messaged her.

_A little bird told me about your schedule change._

_While your dilemma is most entertaining, I sympathize._

_-AoM_

Christine grinned and tucked her cell phone back into her purse. Did her Angel of Music follow her wherever she went? The thought gave her a strange, mysterious feeling of safety. For the rest of the period Christine hummed to herself, doodling on scrap paper and forgetting all about the History quiz. The feeling didn't leave her when she and Meg visited their lockers after class.

"Do you know what you're going to write your article about?" Meg asked as she shoved books into her cramped locker.

"No," Christine answered, neatly stacking her binders on a shelf in her locker. "I'll think about it over the weekend…I can't concentrate now."

"You procrastinator!" Meg cried, pointing an accusing finger at Christine.

"I'm not procrastinating!" Christine defended herself. "I'm prioritizing my work load."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Yeah, sure," she muttered. "Just wait. It'll be Wednesday morning and you'll have no story."

Christine snorted. "Like that's going to happen!"

* * *

"Help me, Meg!" Christine wailed. "It's Wednesday morning and I don't have a story!"

"I told you so!" Meg said, typing on her computer. "Didn't I tell you so? Now you've gone and let the newspaper down _and_ ruined your chances of getting promoted. Maybe I didn't use enough confetti…" She scratched her chin thoughtfully, then returned to work. "You're on your own, chickie. If I were you, I would take my press pass and go look for something halfway decent to write about."

Christine sighed miserably and dug her press pass out of a drawer in Meg's desk, along with her completely blank reporter's notebook. "I'll see you later," she told Meg as she trudged out the door.

The first Christine noticed when she stepped into the hallway was that it was too quiet. There was nobody in the hallway, which was unusual when there was ten minutes before class started. She walked through the hall, her footsteps echoing loudly. The main hall downstairs was completely empty, too. Christine was beginning to get very suspicious.

"_Christine!_"

She jumped, looking around for the source of the noise. To her left, a janitorial closet door creaked open on its own. Shuddering slightly, Christine slipped inside.

"_You don't have an article written._"

Christine slouched shamefacedly. "I know."

"_Why don't you have a story?_"

"I couldn't find anything to write about," Christine mumbled.

"_If I were you, I would go out to the front of the school and see what's going on. Take a look, and then meet me outside the auto shop in ten minutes._"

"Okay." Christine slipped out of the closet and ran down the hallway. She burst through the front doors and stopped in front of a big crowd that was gathered around a fenced-off construction site. Her eyes widened. "OH MY GOSH! IT'S BEE DIDDY!"

Bee Diddy, the most popular teen singing sensation of the day, was standing in the fenced-off area for her own protection, it seemed. Policemen were forcing floods of screaming students away from the fence, shouting that they were not allowed to go near her, and that went for the press as well. That didn't stop the reporters and cameramen from getting as close to the fence as possible.

Christine ran around the crowd to the auto shop. "Angel?" she panted.

"_Christine, look over at the crowd. See that gap in the fence?_"

Christine squinted. "Yes…but there are lots of construction vehicles behind it," she groaned. "I'd get squished!"

"_Are you dedicated enough?_"

Christine watched a bulldozer mow down a brick wall, then glanced down at the press pass that was hanging from her neck. "Yes," she whispered. She approached the gap in the fence and looked fearfully at the roving construction vehicles.

"_You can do it, Christine. I know you can._" The smooth comforted her a little.

"Okay," Christine said, taking a deep breath."

"_Go, Christine…NOW!_"

Christine plunged through the gap and bolted toward the other side of the construction site. She swerved to avoid a rumbling steam shovel and almost got caught by a bulldozer in the process. Christine ran on, gasping for breath. She jumped over a large pipe and ducked under a lifting machine. She then became aware of a deafening roar.

"GO CHRISTINE!"

Her peers were cheering for her! Christine couldn't help smiling. They were cheering her on, yelling scrambled out of the way of an enormous crane that was rolling by and jumped onto a cement mixing truck that rumbled by. She clung to the truck, willing herself not to fall off. The truck took her to the edge of the construction site, where she jumped off, to tumultuous applause. Smiling, Christine skipped over to Bee Diddy.

"Good morning, Miss Bee Diddy," she said cheerfully, turning on the old charm. "My name is Christine Daae, reporting for _The Hayfield Times_. I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me."

Bee smiled broadly. "Sure! I'd love to. You see, the whole reason I came here was to interact with the students, but they're not letting me anywhere near them!"

"Exactly why are you interacting with the students?" Christine asked, scribbling in her reporter's notebook.

"I'm here to promote the music program," Bee answered. "To kick off the General Music course."

"What sort of things will you be doing?" Christine asked.

"Well, today I was going to just talk with people, maybe go around to all the classrooms," Bee said crossly, "but you see what happened there. Stupid policemen. So my agent and I are spending the night in a hotel, and tomorrow I'm going to sing here for a surprise concert. Nobody knows about it except you, me, my agent, my band, and your principal. So people are going to freak out when they read about it in the paper."

"Yes, they certainly will," Christine agreed. "Did you take any music classes in school?"

"I took band for a few years," Bee said. "I played the bass clarinet, and was pretty good at it. Then in seventh grade I started taking chorus, and I found that I loved to sing. That's what sparked me to try out for American Idol."

"Did you always love music?" Christine asked.

"Yes! Most definitely," Bee answered. "When I was a little girl my mother would tell me the story of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, and…"

"I absolutely adore that story!" Christine gasped.

"Isn't it just wonderful?" Bee squealed. "It's so cute and touching! The Little Lotte stories inspired me to play the bass clarinet."

"One more question," Christine said, flipping to a clean page in her notebook. "What's your real name?"

Bee laughed. "Ha! No one's asked me that before! My real name is Rebecca Grace Redfrond."

"Thank you, Bee!" Christine said happily, closing her notebook. "I'd better get going."

"Be careful out there," Bee advised. "I saw you almost get slammed a few times. Do you want to go out another way?"

Christine looked out at the screaming crowds. "Personally, I think it's safer the other way," she laughed. "Thank you, though!"

"Bye!"

Christine ran back the way she came. She dodged and ducked, bobbed and weaved through the big, yellow trucks. She was almost back to the gap when a chunk of metal fell onto her back, knocking her over. Her reporter's notebook flew out of her hand and into a small gutter.

"No!" Christine wailed. "My story!" She dived across to the gutter, reaching in as far as she could. She couldn't reach! A rumbling sound made her look up. A huge plow was coming toward her, ripping up the sidewalk. It was going to kill the gutter, and murder her notebook while it was at it! Christine reached farther and realized that if she didn't move, she and her notebook were going down together. But she _had_ to get it out! Christine strained her muscles, stretching as far as she possibly could. But her arm was just too short. The plow came nearer and nearer, spitting chunks of cement off the sides of the shovel. "Angel, help me!" Christine shrieked over the noise.

A black glove reached up through the gutter and knocked the notebook into Christine's hand. She threw herself out of the way just as the plow destroyed the gutter. Breathing heavily, Christine picked herself up and ran to the gap in the fence, unharmed save for a scratch or two.

"Christine!" Meg yelled, running to meet her friend. "I got a phone call about ten minutes ago saying you ran through the construction zone to talk to Bee Diddy! Is it true?"

"Yeah, it's true," Christine panted and leaned against the side of the cubicle. She waved her notebook. "I've got it all in here. I have to write it down now…"

The bell rang. Meg winced. "Oooooh…not good. Can you do it over lunch?"

Christine nodded. "I'll go do it in the library," she said, although she was actually thinking about how she would sneak off to the deserted journalism room and write her article under her Angel's guiding eye.

All through second, third, and fourth periods Christine couldn't stop thinking about her article. It wasn't entirely her fault; her classmates kept asking her questions about her interview. Even Raoul Chagny congratulated her on "not getting squished dead," although Christine had heard from a very reliable source that he was only talking to her because he lost a bet and had to.

Finally, the fourth period bell rang and Christine exploded out of the door of the girls' locker room. She ran through the hallway, skidding over the freshly-waxed tile, and hustled up the stairs to the journalism room. When she was sure no one was watching her, Christine slipped inside.

"Angel?" she called. "Are you here?"

"_Always_," was the smooth reply. "_Get to work immediately. Remember what we talked about on Monday. I'll look it over when you're done._"

Christine sat down to work at Meg's computer and typed for fifteen minutes straight. "I'm done!" she said when she had finished.

"_Read it to me._"

"_The students of Hayfield High were shocked when they arrived at school on Wednesday to see teen sensation Bee Diddy making herself comfortable on a bench_," Christine read out loud. "What do you think? Good lead?"

"_Yes. It's informative and fits the one-sentence format. Continue._"

"_The students were unaware that Bee Diddy had arrived to kick off the new music program, in which General Music is introduced. She was happy to share some insight on her intentions._

"_So…what does she plan on doing? "Well, today I was going to just talk with people, maybe go around to all the classrooms," Bee grumbled-_"

"_Said._"

"Sorry?"

"_When using the Associated Press style, it's always 'said.' Never 'grumbled,' 'whispered,' 'giggled,' et cetera._"

"Oh, thanks." Christine fixed her mistake. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. _"…Bee _said_, "but you see what happened there." Bee Diddy's plans were disrupted when she was attacked by a mob of screaming fans. Fearing for the pop star's safety, policemen moved her into a fenced-off construction zone. They declared that it was too risky for Bee to interact with the students, so instead the singer will get a day off._

_"Bee Diddy assured _The Hayfield Times_ that she has always loved music. She states that her first musical love, the bass clarinet, was inspired by the story of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. Those of you who have heard the story know all about Little Lotte's adventures with her Angel of Music, the spiritual being who visits musicians of all kinds. The story says that musicians who have been visited by the Angel of Music have 'genius' and a superb talent for making music. These stories led to Bee's band days, which led to her chorus years, which led to her debut on American Idol._

"_Bee Diddy has a special event planned for Hayfield- a free live concert! On Thursday at 8:00 students will be asked to go to the Theater, where they will be greeted by loud music, an energetic band, and their favorite singer! It's not an event anyone will want to miss! _The Hayfield Times_ has been told that Bee Diddy will be available for autographs and pictures after the concert, so stick around!_

"_We all love the mystery and goofiness of Bee Diddy's name. But does anyone actually know her real name? On Wednesday morning Bee Diddy revealed to the press that her real name is Rebecca Grace Redfrond. Just something to stew over while waiting for that concert!_"

"_Very good. Much better than that sample you wrote on Monday._"

Christine blushed. "Thanks," she said softly, grinning. "Do you think the editors will like it?"

"_If they don't, they'll reveal once and for all that they really are idiots and blubbering fools. You did very nicely, Christine. If I were you, I would get going. Fifth period starts in five minutes._"

Christine jumped and glanced at her watch. The Angel was right. "Wow…I didn't realize it was so late!" she gasped. She gathered up her things and headed for the door. "Until Friday?"

"_Friday. Don't be late._"

"I won't!" Christine assured him as she pulled the door closed.

* * *

Christine was sitting on the bus, twiddling her thumbs. She was bored, and she kept getting the feeling that she was forgetting something. She had checked the contents of her backpack twice; everything was there. She was beginning to get really annoyed.

"Hey, Christine?" Christine turned around to see a girl named Ritwikha looking oddly at her. "Don't you have to stay after for Journalism?"

Christine gasped. "Oh my gosh, you're right! Thanks!" She gathered up her stuff and walked toward the door, which swung shut the moment she got there. "I have to get off!" she begged the bus driver. "It's important!"

Grumbling, the driver opened the doors again. "Thank you!" Christine said, jumping off. She ran through the parking lot and through the front doors. However, she was met by a sea of lingering students, which would be very hard to get through. Muttering darkly to herself, Christine turned and raced around the side of the school to the auto shop, where she let herself in through an open garage door. The auto shop was very far away from the journalism room, so Christine ended up being ten minutes late.

"Hold the press!" she screamed, bursting through the door. "I've got the scoop on Bee Diddy!"

"It's about time!" Meg huffed, looking relieved as she skidded over to her friend's side. "We didn't think you would show up. Did you get the article done?"

"Yes!" Christine said, running over to the editors' desk. Andre and Firmin glared at her.

"You're late!" Firmin grumbled. "We were about to fill your column up with advertisements!"

"Yeah, but I've got an important story!" Christine said quickly, shoving her article into Andre's hands. "It's about Bee Diddy!" Andre scanned the article, his eyes growing wide. "What do you think?" Christine asked, still panting slightly. "Good enough for that column?"

"Column?" Andre repeated, staring wide-eyed at Christine. "This needs to go on the front page!" He ran over to Sandy's closet and let himself in. A moment later Christine heard Sandy scream loudly and angrily. She didn't give a darn. As far as she cared, Christine was a reporter, and Sandy was a worthless pageboy. Or girl. Whatever.

* * *

A/N: Heeheehee. I love the pageboy jibe. This chapter turned out to be better than I expected. For me, anyway. What did you think? There's nothing like a bit of healthy foreshadowing! I apologize for the late update. I'm trying to get my schedule back on track, but I've just realized that I never had a schedule to begin with. That makes it kind of hard to get back on track. Anyway, please review! Please? I love getting feedback, and I would appreciate any tips or hints that you would like to point out. Go easy on Christine's article…I know it's not the best work in the world, but it's good enough for my purposes. In the next chapter, a person from Christine's past shows up...I doubt the Phantom will be happy! Thanks for reading The Hayfield Times!


	5. The Phantom of the Opera

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. Tell me something I don't know, right? Pop-Tarts don't belong to me, either. Except for the box in my pantry.

* * *

Chapter Five

_HONK!_ "CHRISTINE, WAKE UP!"

Christine ruefully woke up from her dream about masked men and cute jocks. She took one look at the clock and groaned. She rolled out of bed and stumbled across her dark bedroom to the window. Her worst fear was confirmed- Meg had arrived early. Christine opened the window.

"Meg!" she yelled down to the figure in the silver convertible. "I've got fifteen minutes left of sleep!"

"Too bad!" the blonde girl shouted. "Come on, I need to talk to you!"

"Couldn't you just call me or something?" Christine hollered, now thoroughly ticked.

Meg honked her horn again. "No! This is important!"

"Would you knock it off with the honking?" Christine bellowed. "My dad is sleeping! So are all the neighbors!"

"We were, anyway." Christine pulled her head back inside the window and turned around. Gustave Daae was standing in her doorway in his pajamas, and he did not look happy. "What's going on?"

"Sorry, Dad," Christine apologized. "It's just my friend…she arrived forty-five minutes early to pick me up."

"Is it the blonde maniac you were telling me about?" Gustave asked, making his way to the window.

Christine grinned. "The one and only Meg Giry."

Ten minutes later, Christine was slouched in the passenger seat of Meg's car, nibbling a Pop-Tart. "So what did you need to talk about that was so important you couldn't wait half an hour?"

Meg peered around a corner and accelerated, her tires squealing. "I think my mom's involved in some way with the Drama Ghost."

Christine frowned. "Really? And you just ran a red light. _And_ you're way over the speed limit."

Meg glared at her. "Backseat driver."

"I'm sitting in the front!"

"Passenger-seat driver!"

"Anyway," Christine said, "why do you think your mom's involved with D.G.?"

Meg turned to look at Christine. "She got a phone call last night, around 9:30. She looked upset when she hung up about fifteen minutes later. I only caught a bit of what she said, but it was enough to freak me out. She said, 'Whatever you have to do, don't get caught…and don't hurt anyone.'"

Christine abandoned her pop-tart, suddenly feeling sick. "Wow," she whispered. "That's really…MEG! WATCH OUT!"

Meg swerved back into the right line, barely avoiding an oncoming truck.

"Jeez, Meg!" Christine yelped. "Do you want me to drive or something? You're going to get us killed!"

"Sorry!" Meg cried, gripping the steering wheel so tightly Christine thought it would come off. "I didn't mean- I just got distracted- I'm sorry!" She took a deep, shuddering breath and relaxed. "I didn't know you could drive."

"I'm sixteen, Meg," Christine reminded her. "I _can_ drive, I just don't have a car with which to do so."

"That reminds me," Meg said, scratching her chin. "Raoul Chagny's parents just got him a red convertible."

"That was random," Christine remarked after a moment of silence.

"Has he remembered you yet?" Meg asked.

Christine shook her head ruefully. "No. And I doubt he ever will. We live on two different planes of existence. He's in the popular plane, and I'm in the normal plane."

"Technically, you're in the popular normal plane," Meg pointed out. "You're a star reporter now. When those newspapers start selling this morning, your name will be all over."

Christine giggled. "I can't believe Bee Diddy actually came to our school! I can't wait for the concert today."

"Should be fun," Meg agreed. She was quiet for a moment. Christine could see in the dim light that she was chewing her lip. Finally she spoke.

"Okay, I don't mean to pry, but how did you know how to get into that construction zone? And how did you write such a good article? Your writing used to be cra-"

"Meg!"

"You wrote _badly_," Meg corrected herself. "But now you're really good. And where in the world have you been hiding at lunchtime? You're never around anymore."

Christine didn't say anything. She wrung her hands, wondering whether or not she should tell Meg her secret. Part of her was dying to tell someone, but the other part wanted to take the secret to the grave. Finally she decided to tell. She could trust Meg, couldn't she?

"Do you remember that story I mentioned in my article?" she asked quietly.

"The one about that chick…what was her name? Little Lot?"

"It's pronounced 'Lottie,' Meg," Christine corrected.

"Well it looks like Lot!" Meg argued.

"It's not," Christine sighed. "It's Lottie. Anyway, Little Lotte was visited by the Angel of Music. And…so was I."

"What are you smoking?" Meg asked, squinting suspiciously at Christine.

"The Angel of Music has been teaching me how to write!" Christine insisted. She paused for a moment, smiling. "And he sings to me, too. He has the most beautiful voice, Meg! It's deep, and rich, and strong, and just so darn mysterious!"

"Have you ever seen this angel?" Meg asked, totally unconvinced.

Christine shot a sideways glance at her. "That depends on how you define 'seen the angel.'"

Meg shook her head. "I dunno, Christine. For all you know, it could be the Drama Ghost who's talking to you."

Christine sat back in her seat, staring straight ahead. "I know for a fact that it is."

_SCREEEEECH!_ The car came to a stop in the middle of the road. "WHAT?" Meg exploded.

Christine shrank away from her furious/surprised expression. "Well…"

"Christine, how many times have I told you this guy is dangerous? He's done so many bad things!" Meg wailed. "You don't want to go associating with him! He could hurt you!"

"Meg, he's not going to hurt me!" Christine cried. "He watches over me, helps me, texts me! He tipped me off about the gap in the fence!"

"He _watches over you?_" Meg gasped. "Like, he watches you change? Christine, this guy could rape you!"

"He wouldn't do that!" Christine argued. "Meg, you don't understand!"

"Like heck I don't!" Meg snarled, accelerating once more. She didn't say anything more until they reached the school parking lot. She turned to Christine, concern in her eyes. "Christine, I just don't want to see you get hurt," she whispered. "If you won't stop seeing him…well, I guess you don't _see_ him, but…just be careful, okay?"

Christine nodded. They got out of the car and headed toward the school. Because Meg had looped around the county once or twice, there was half an hour before school started. Students were arriving, but instead of going inside, they gathered in a clump around the auditorium.

"What's going on?" Christine asked Meg. "Is there a protest scheduled for today?"

Meg shrugged. "I have no idea. Let's go see."

They pushed their way to the front of the crowd, Meg mumbling something about the press and being a reporter. When they got to the front, though, she was silent.

Yesterday white letters spelling "AUDITORIUM had been nailed to the wall over the doors. Somebody, however, had taken off the letters and left them in a heap on the ground. The person had spray painted "OPERA HOUSE" in strangely fancy script over the blank patch of wall.

"Whoa…" Meg breathed. She looked at Christine. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Christine nodded seriously. "It couldn't have been anyone else."

Meg looked at the scene a moment longer, then got out her cameraphone and snapped a picture. Then she and Christine had to run to the cafeteria, where the newsstand was being set up.

"You're late," Kaila Towerson informed them as she struggled with the folding table.

"Yeah, we know," Meg grunted, pulling on one of the legs. "Did you see what our friend the Drama Ghost did?"

Kaila looked up, frowning. "No. What'd he do now?"

Meg showed her the picture. While they were looking, Christine sighed. "I wish I had a cameraphone."

Meg put the phone away. "I had to save for years to get it," she said. "Give me a hand with this table, Christine."

The girls expertly manned the sales table, selling papers to the growing throng of curious students. They worked until the first bell rang, signifying that there were ten minutes before school started. Christine hole-punched one last subscription card and handed it back to its owner with a newspaper. Beside her, Meg counted a pile of change.

"We need to pack up, Meg," Christine said.

Meg nodded, then handed a newspaper to the student. She nudged Kaila, who poked Jessie, who tapped the shoulder of Sam, who picked up a yardstick and jabbed Firmin in the ribs, successfully waking him up.

"It's quittin' time, Boss," Sam informed him. "Since you didn't help sell the papers, we'll just let you clean up by yourself."

Christine giggled. "Good idea, Sam."

"I'm just full of 'em," Sam said proudly, picking up her bag. "We'd better get to homeroom. If we're late, Mrs. Flipski will…_flip!_"

All five girls burst out in laughter. They weaved their way through the crowd, chatting and gossiping like the teenagers they were. At one point Christine heard someone shout her name.

"Christine! Hey, Christine, wait up!"

Christine wheeled around, but she couldn't find the person who had called her. Had she just imagined it? Shrugging, she continued on.

Meg stopped suddenly, and Christine bumped into her. "I hear something," Meg announced. "A Bee Diddy song."

The girls stared at each other for a moment before Christine jumped and started digging through her purse. "Oh, it's my cell phone! Someone text messaged me…" Her Caller ID read _Unavailable_, so she went right to the message.

_Come today instead of tomorrow._

_-AoM _

Christine flipped her cell shut, trying not to smile but not succeeding. As they walked down the hall, she had to endure relentless teasing from the other girls, but she really didn't care. They arrived at Mrs. Flipski's trailer in time for her to launch into a tirade about germs. The English teacher went on for five whole minutes, stopping only when the power clicked off.

"What the heck?" Christine heard Meg mutter. She herself couldn't help but wonder if a certain ghost had something to do with this. Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later when the electricity came back on and the intercom beeped.

"_Good morning, Hayfield Tigers_," a scary-sounding voice greeted them. "_This is your ruler, the resident Drama Ghost, and I have a few morning announcements to make._"

Christine and Meg shared a scared look, both thinking, "This can't be good!"

"_I would like to express my amusement that all of you have been so afraid of me when all I really wanted to do was help. As some of you may recall, I ordered that a few changes be made to the art programs of this school. Those who refused to change were given warning; I daresay the drama instructor would encourage them to comply with my demands._"

"Did Journalism comply?" Christine whispered to Meg. The blonde girl shook her head, eyes widening slightly.

"_I've given you plenty of time to act. Now my patience has run out. All of you will suffer, and Journalism will be the first to go down. Only the Music programs shall remain untouched, for they met with my demands willingly. And let it be known that the Music programs will be the only to receive help from me. All others should beware. Since only the musicians will be getting my attention, I have changed my name to O.G., standing for Opera Ghost. Anyone who calls me 'Drama Ghost' will suffer severe and torturous punishment. Have an excellent day, Tigers!_"

"Oh…my…God…" Meg was hyperventilating. She turned to Christine with wide eyes. "We're all gonna die!"

Christine was shocked. She could say nothing. The person she had been defending less than an hour ago was now threatening the entire school! The bell rang, letting the students know it was time to go to first period. The class got to their feet and traveled as a pack to the Journalism room. That was the one good thing about being in a class together. There was safety in numbers!

It was very hard to work that day because the entire School Security was hovering around the cubicles, muttering into their walkie-talkies. Christine did, however, get her own cubicle that day, and she convinced Joe to move out of his so she could get the one across from Meg. That made her head a target for Meg's favorite way of communication- paper balls.

Christine winced as yet another wadded-up sheet of paper bounced off her head. She whipped out her notebook and tore paper out of it, scribbling "IM" on it in big letters, then crumbling it up. Then she poked her head over the top of the cubicle to make sure the School Security wasn't watching her and let it fly. A second later, Meg IM-ed her, asking whether or not the concert would still be on. Christine could tell she would want to talk about this for a long time, so she just dragged her feet across the aisle to tell her in person.

"I honestly don't think they'll cancel it just because our lives are at stake," she said sarcastically.

Meg shuddered. "Don't say that! Ugh, you're such a pessimist!"

Christine shrugged. "If you say so. But I don't think they'll cancel it. This is Bee Diddy we're talking about here!"

The intercom beeped. "Please excuse the interruption, teachers," the secretary said, "but all students need to report to the Theater immediately."

Loud cheers erupted from every corner of the school. The students burst out of their various classrooms and ran to the theater, pushing each other to get a good seat. Nobody sat down anyway. They jumped up and down, screaming for their favorite pop star.

The concert was a hit! Bee Diddy sang five songs and then went around signing autographs and talking to each and every student. Christine got her to sign her cell phone, purse, and laminated copy of _The Hayfield Times_. Although Bee was a little frazzled at the end of the gig (frazzled meaning she had lost her hat, majorly messed up and frizzed her hair, sweated until she stunk like a skunk, and somehow gotten ketchup on her pants) she made it well-known that she had an excellent time. The concert ended just in time for fourth period.

Meg groaned. Then she sighed. Then she groaned again.

"Meg, what's wrong?" Christine felt obliged to ask.

"_Why_ couldn't Bee have dragged it out forty-five minutes longer?" Meg groaned as she and Christine walked toward the gym from the locker rooms, dressed in the ugly orange and black gym uniforms. "Or even fifteen! Even then we probably would have gotten out of gym."

Christine shrugged. "I thought you liked gym. Has ogling the football team lost its merits?"

Meg nodded, sighed, groaned, sighed, and groaned again.

"Would you knock it off?" Christine hissed, jabbing Meg in the ribs.

"Sorry!" Meg said, looking offended. "Excuse me for expressing my depression!" She thought for a moment. "Hey, that rhymes! Expressin' my depression!"

"I'm going to be expressing anger if you don't quit being annoying," Christine warned through gritted teeth.

Meg was silent for about three seconds. "So what are we doing today?" she asked.

"More waltzing." Christine grimaced.

"Haven't we been doing that for three and a half weeks now?" Meg wailed. "All this close contact with nerdy boys is damaging my mental health!"

"It's funny how you always get paired with nerdy boys," Christine giggled, pushing open the door to the gym. "Of course, I always get paired with nerds too, but it's not so funny for me."

Mr. Cookley was obviously feeling nice today. He switched on the music (and turned the volume up so loud that it covered up the hockey game that was taking place on the other side of the gym) and called out, "I'll let you choose your partners today! If you're not dancing with someone in five seconds, though, I'll pair you with someone!"

Christine yawned and stretched. She knew no boy would ever willingly dance with her, so she didn't even hope. She was shocked when somebody grabbed her hands from behind and spun her out across the gym.

"Little Lotte let her mind wander…" Christine was pleasantly surprised to find herself in the arms of Raoul Chagny.

"Raoul!" she exclaimed.

"Little Lotte thought to herself, 'Am I fonder of dolls, goblins, or riddles?'" Raoul went on, grinning broadly at Christine with his pearly white teeth and dazzling green eyes. "Or of shoes?"

"Or those picnics in the attic?" Christine whispered, her heart beating as fast as Meg drove.

"Or chocolate?"

"Listening to Father play his violin…"

"…as we read to each other, dark tales of the North."

Christine raised her eyebrows at Raoul. "'No,' Little Lotte said, 'what I like best is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…'"

"The Angel of Music sings songs in my head…" they whispered together.

Raoul shook his head, smiling. "I've missed you, Christine. I can't believe you've been under my nose all this time and I hadn't recognized you."

Christine shrugged. "It's been a while. We've both changed…although I recognized you the moment I saw you."

Raoul chuckled. "Now you're just trying to make me feel bad. You always used to do that. Your name sounded familiar, although I just couldn't figure it out. I even talked to you the other day, and I just couldn't figure out who you were. As soon as I read that part in your article about Little Lotte, though, I knew it was you."

"I'm so very glad that I wrote it, then," Christine said mischievously. She and Raoul jumped as a hockey puck sailed over their heads. "Wow…it's getting rough over there!"

"I like hockey," Raoul commented. "I used to play ice hockey. Now I play football, as you know."

"Anything else?" Christine asked. "If I remember correctly, your mom was always signing you up for sports you didn't like."

"She still makes me take fencing," Raoul admitted. "The most useless sport in the world."

Another hockey puck whizzed by. "They must be aiming for us or something," Christine murmured. "No one could possibly be that bad!"

"You'd be surprised," Raoul told her. "The freshmen this year seem to be very un-athletic."

_WhizzzzzzzzzzzzzTHUNK!_ A hockey puck connected with the side of Christine's head, and everything went black.

Christine opened her eyes blearily, then shut them again as she was blinded by bright lights. Her head absolutely throbbed! She opened her eyes and squinted through the light. She lying on the floor of a very big gym, surrounded by teenagers dressed in ugly gym suits.

"Où suis-je?" she muttered, rubbing her head.

"Is she speaking _French?_" she heard someone shout. The teens around her weren't talking in French…was it English? Yes, it was. She could understand them, but oh how she detested the English language…

"Christine?"

A guy kneeled down next to her and took her hand. There was something familiar about him. Christine sat up slowly. "Qui êtes-vous?"

The guy frowned at her, looking confused. Then he grinned, answering her in French. "Christine, I am the little boy who fetched your scarf out of the sea!"

"Raoul?" Christine gasped. "C'est toi?"

"Ouais, c'est moi," Raoul said, smiling. He continued speaking in French, fluently, but sort of strained, as if he were out of practice. "I think you've lost your memory, Christine. What year is it?"

Christine frowned, finding herself at a loss. "I don't know. Where are we? Why are all these people speaking English?"

"We're in America," Raoul told her. "You and I moved here. We're sophomores at Hayfield High School. I'm the quarterback for the football team, and you're a reporter for the school newspaper."

Christine stared at him. "I am?"

"Yeah." Raoul pronounced a strange-sounding English name. "_The Hayfield Times_."

It was as if a tidal wave slammed into Christine's head. Suddenly she remembered! Everything flooded back into her head; the move to America, learning English, coming to Hayfield, writing for the newspaper, her Angel of Music, Raoul…

"Are you back?" Raoul asked, in English this time.

Christine nodded, blinking. "Yeah. I think so. Whoa."

"Just in time to go to lunch, too," Mr. Cookley announced as he walked by. "You all right, Daae?"

"Yes, sir," Christine said quickly. She scrambled to her feet.

"Get changed, and then we can have lunch together," Raoul suggested. "I'll buy you a root beer."

_What? No!_ "That sounds really nice, Raoul, but I need to go do something in the Journalism room," Christine said, sounding as sorry as she could. She realized that her Angel would definitely not be happy about this…

"If it's homework, then you can do it in the cafeteria," Raoul said, jogging away. "Two minutes! Hurry up!"

"Oooooooooh shitake mushrooms," Christine muttered. "What a mess…" It had come down to this; ruin any chances of getting together with Raoul and go see her Angel, or destroy the relationship she had with her Angel and get together with Raoul, which was against his rules anyway…oh dear.

Meg's advice predictably, was to go with Raoul. "You do not want to ruin chances of being his girlfriend!" she insisted, opening her gym locker.

"But-" Christine started.

"But nothing!" Meg cut in. "And you can't go in that!" she added, looking distastefully at Christine's outfit. "Here…"

Christine stared, bug-eyed, as Meg pulled an entire closetful of clothes out of her locker. The blonde maniac certainly had good taste in clothing. She lent Christine a cute sweater and a skirt that matched. The stockings Meg forced her to wear were a little baggy, but Meg fixed that problem with a few rubber bands.

"Sure, it'll cut off your circulation," she said cheerfully, "but there's no way those stockings are coming off!"

* * *

"I still don't see what you could possibly be doing up here that's more important than eating lunch," Raoul grumbled, tossing a nerf ball at the ceiling of the Journalism room.

"You boys are always thinking about your stomachs," Christine mumbled. She typed pointlessly on her computer, trying to think of ways to get rid of Raoul. Inspiration whacked her head with a cast iron griddle. Why hadn't she thought of that before? "You know, Raoul, I would really appreciate it if you went down and got me something to eat," she said hopefully.

Raoul shrugged. "Okay. No problemo."

"Thanks!" Christine handed him some money, thinking, "Don't let the door hit 'ya or the Good Lord split 'ya."

Raoul strolled out of her cubicle. A few seconds later she heard the door shut. She tiptoed over to the door, made sure no one was watching, and locked the door. She liked Raoul a lot, but she refused to let him mess things up. Christine jogged to the press room and shut the door behind her. The lights went out instantly.

"_Thinks he's smart, doesn't he? Stupid jock can't even take a hint."_

_Oh no!_ "I'm sorry, Angel!" she cried. "I told him not to come, honestly I did!"

"_I know, Christine. I saw it all._"

_Of course you did,_ Christine thought. Oh, the guilt burned! She opened her mouth to apologize more, but something weird came out instead…

"_Angel I hear you! Speak, I listen!_

_Stay by my side, don't leave me!_

_Angel, my heart was weak, forgive me._

_Enter at last, Master!"_

Silence met her words. "What the heck was that?" she thought.

"_Flattering child, you shall know me._

_See why in shadow I hide._

_Look at the mirror beside you…_

_I am there, inside!"_

Her heart beating a mile a minute, Christine turned slowly around to face the mirror. Standing where her reflection should have been…was a man! The man was dressed entirely in black and was wearing a black cloak. The most mystifying thing about him, however, was the white mask he wore on one side of his face.

_"I am your Angel of Music…come to me, Angel of Music…_"

Was he singing or whispering? It seemed to be both at once. His voice made shivers run down Christine's spine. Trance-like, she moved toward the mirror. A sort of fog filled her brain, making her unable to think about anything except the masked man in front of her.

Her mind dully registered someone banging on the door and shouting, but she honestly didn't care. She moved forward slowly, step by step.

"_I am your Angel of Music…come to me, Angel of Music…_"

Miraculously, Christine stepped _through_ the mirror. She had no idea how, and she didn't care. The most pressing matter on her mind was that she was standing mere feet away from the masked man…

The man held out a black, gloved hand. _Just like in all your silly fantasies…_ she thought.

Trembling slightly, Christine took the hand of the Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

A/N: All together, now! DUUUUUUUUUN…dun, dun, dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuuuuun…..

That part was fun to write! I rather detested the RC part, but it had to go in. So you can predict what's going to happen in the next chapter…should be fun! "Où suis-je?" means "Where am I?" Or at least the Google translator says it does. Please review! Remember…happy authoresses write faster! Thanks for reading!


	6. The Phantom's Lair

Disclaimer: None of the books are mine. None of the various movies are mine. None of the lyrics are mine. I own nothing! Nothing, I tell you!

* * *

Chapter Six

Christine was shocked to the point where she no longer had control over her body. It wasn't a problem, though. The moment she put her hand into his, the Phantom of the Opera took charge. Grasping her hand more tightly, he set off down a long, stone hallway, and she had no choice but to follow him. The hallway was eerily and brightly lit by dozens of candelabras that looked like human arms.

Were some of the arms _moving?_

She didn't look closer, for she was too busy gazing at the back of the Phantom's head. Occasionally he would turn and their eyes would lock together, emerald green against chocolate brown. Then he would slowly look away and Christine's breathing would return to normal. Words weaved themselves into Christine's mind, forming a poem that soon found a tune.

_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came- that voice which calls to me and speaks my name. And do I dream again? For now I find…_

"_The Phantom of the opera is there…inside my mind!_"

_No! No singing! Stop!_ Christine's mind screamed. She had never meant for the unwritten lyrics to escape her lips. But something had coaxed them out into the air, some unseen force of mystery that seemed to follow the Phantom wherever he went. She was embarrassed to have broken out in song like that, but her silent guide seemed unfazed by it.

"_Sing once again with me,_

_Our strange duet…_" He was playing along with the little charade, singing to her in that intoxicatingly beautiful voice.

"_My power over you_

_Grows stronger yet._"

Christine's mind registered that somewhere along the line the Phantom had picked up a torch. The practical part of her brain wondered where he had gotten fire in a school. The other part totally didn't care- it was too busy swooning as the Phantom gazed at her with his beautiful green eyes. If only Meg could see what was happening. She'd be so jealous!

Meg. Christine suddenly remembered what the heck she was doing. She glanced back the way they had come, wondering miserably what kind of trouble she was going to get into. But then the Phantom's voice filled her mind, and all remaining doubt or guilt was pushed out.

"_And though you turn from me_

_To glance behind_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there…_

_Inside your mind!_"

They had reached the bottom of a stone spiral staircase. Christine hadn't realized that she had walked down it. She wondered if this was what it was like to be on drugs. They turned around a corner and Christine was face-to-face with a black horse.

"How on earth did you get a horse down here?" she gasped in astonishment.

"One of my many secrets," the Phantom said mysteriously. He helped her to mount, and Christine found herself wishing she hadn't worn a skirt. She was now forced to ride sidesaddle, and she was always on the brink of slipping off. Thankfully the ride wasn't too long. It was only a few minutes before the horse stopped at a large expanse of water.

"A lake!" Christine murmured, very surprised. "A subterranean lake! How…" She trailed off, knowing that she wouldn't learn the answer to this question, either. Her breath caught in her throat as the Phantom took her by the waist and lifted her off the horse, setting her gently back down on the ground. Christine's legs almost didn't hold her; she was mere inches apart from the dark, mysterious man. They stood in that spot for a moment, looking into each other's eyes.

The Phantom took Christine's hand and led her to a small boat, rather similar to a gondola. The ride across the lake was more mysterious than anything Christine had encountered yet. Swirling mist slid over them as she sat speechless in the boat, staring at the amazing architecture as it slid by. Behind her the Phantom poled the boat silently, the dim light glancing eerily off of his mask.

"_Those who have seen your face_

_Draw back in fear._" The words sprang once more from her lips, unbidden and still in the same haunting tune.

"_I am the mask you wear…_"

"_It's me they hear._" The Phantom cut in, knowing somehow exactly what she was going to say. Their voices loud and strong, they sang together, each knowing what the other was thinking.

"_Your spirit and my voice,_

_In one, combined!_" Christine sang, losing herself entirely in the music.

"_The Phantom of the Opera is there…_

_Inside my mind!_"

Echoing voices sounded in her mind, singing, "_Beware the Phantom of the Opera!_" She ignored her conscience's warning and echoed it, "_He's there, the Phantom of the Opera!_"

Before her eyes, a gate appeared in the looming mist and started to open slowly.

"Sing…" she heard the Phantom hiss into her ear. Unable to control herself, Christine opened her mouth and sang. It was a high note, barely within her range. She sang along with the music in her mind, her voice falling, falling, and gaining height again.

"Sing, my Angel of Music!" Christine obliged without thinking, starting on an even higher note this time. It was a cadenza, a rising and falling of her voice. The music poured out of her soul.

"_Sing for me!_" The power in the Phantom's voice made her powerless to refuse. Christine climbed a note higher, holding it out as long as she possibly could at the ghost's fierce urging. She sang loudly, staring in astonishment as the boat passed under the gate and lit candles started rising out of the water. The boat drew nearer and nearer to the shore, and more and more candles rose out of the water.

"_Sing for me!_" the Phantom thundered, and Christine let loose with the highest note she had ever managed to reach. She just threw her head back and sang, expecting to hear a screech and surprising herself with a strong, beautiful note. She held it out until she ran out of breath, and her lungs refilled with air of their own accord, the sound echoing against the dark stone walls of the misty shore.

Christine watched in fascination as the Phantom leaped out of the boat. Her heart skipped a beat as he whipped the cloak off of his shoulders and sent it flying through the air. Christine wondered if he practiced that.

"You are sitting in a place unknown to many," he said. This…this is my kingdom of music." He gestured around at the various instruments that adorned the place. "In this darkness, all must pay homage to music." He turned away from her. "Since that day you came to my school I thought there was something…_musical_ about you. Then I heard you sing and you removed all doubt. Since that day I have needed you, needed you here with me, to serve me…to serve this darkness…this music."

Christine felt goosebumps rise on her arms. She didn't know exactly what the Phantom meant by this, but it sounded creepy. Obsessive stalker creepy. She had always preferred light over dark, and was starting to get freaked out.

As though he sensed Christine's unease, the Phantom started singing. His voice drifted through the air and hovered lightly.

"_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation._

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination._

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses…_"

He stepped forward and helped Christine out of the boat. She was slowly returning to her trancelike state, a small smile gradually spreading across her face. The Phantom led her across the "room" over to a large organ, singing to her the sweet lullaby. Christine looked around in wonder. Her eyes fell upon little models of what appeared to be Hayfield High School. Around the models were sketches and drawings of cathedrals, castles, and other buildings. It seemed that the Phantom had a taste for architecture…

Black leather gloves gently took Christine's chin and tilted it upward, so that she was looking directly into the Phantom's eyes.

"_Turn your face away from the garish light of day,_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light…_

_And listen to the music of the night!_"

He dropped her hand and bounded up three stone stairs to what appeared to be a pipe organ. He pivoted around to face her, his arms spread out triumphantly.

"_Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!_

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before._

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar…_"

Christine closed her eyes upon command, quivering with an odd sense of enjoyment. She sighed, happy just to lose herself in the Phantom's song. When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her, hungrily. He beckoned her forward, and Christine stepped, dreamlike, over to him. Once more he took her hand, singing to her in that entrancing, seductive voice. He pulled her closer, their faces now barely an inch apart.

Christine looked down shyly, not meeting the Phantom's eyes. Once she dared glance up for a second, and her eyes were met with gentle, misty pools of green. She knew the Phantom was still singing, as his lips were moving right next to hers, but she wasn't listening to the words. How could she, over the loud beating of her heart?

The Phantom pulled away and walked gracefully around the organ, his eyes never leaving Christine's for a second.

"_Let your soul take you where you long to be!_"

His words echoed off the stone walls, sending shivers down Christine's spine. Slowly the Phantom returned to Christine's side, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

"_Only then can you belong to me…_"

He twisted her around so that she couldn't see him anymore. He hissed into her ear, trailing a hand across her waist and down her thigh.

"_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication…_

_Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation."_

He brought Christine's hand up to the unmasked side of his face. Shivering slightly, Christine traced her fingertips across his cheek. Was it her imagination or was the Phantom trembling? She turned her head to look him in the eye. He took her hands in his, as though he were begging.

"_Let the dream begin! Let your darker side give in_

_To the power of the music that I write…_

_The power of the music of the night!_"

The Phantom pulled Christine forward, leading her to a red velvet curtain that was hanging on the wall. He pulled the curtain aside to reveal a small room, into which he gently ushered Christine. "Watch your head," he whispered.

Ducking through the narrow doorway, Christine entered the room and came face to face with a portrait…of herself. The Christine in the portrait must have been five years younger, but Christine recognized herself immediately.

She was wearing that costume…

That costume she wore that night when she sang…

The night of the accident.

In a blind panic, Christine stumbled backwards. She smacked her head against the stone wall and crumbled, unconscious, into her angel's arms.

* * *

Meg unlocked the Journalism door and flicked on the lights. "Nice try, Christine!" she called out. "You can't run from your problems!" She shut the door behind her, waiting for an answer. When she didn't get one she said, "You know, you got into a lot of trouble for skipping class. You've got just enough time to get all the make-up work before the buses leave."

The room was silent. Meg made her way over to Christine's cubicle. "Aw, Christine! Don't give me the silent treatment." She peeked over the top of the cubicle, expecting to see Christine sulking in a corner. What she found was an empty cubicle, a screen saver on the computer, and Christine's purse lying on her desk. "Christine?"

When Meg moved the computer's mouse she found a Word document full of nonsense. Obviously Christine hadn't been working on a legitimate article. She called out her friend's name, hoping she had just gone to the bathroom or something.

On an impulse, Meg went through Christine's purse and found that her cell phone was missing. Wherever she was, she must have had it with her. Meg whipped out her cell and called Christine, muttering, "Pick up, darn it!"

"_Hi, this is Christine! I can't come to the phone right now but if you leave a message I'll get back to you as soon as I can! Rock on, dude or dudette!_"

"Christine, where the hell are you?" Meg shouted into the phone. "You've annoyed the teachers, worked Raoul into a frenzy, AND forgot to log off of your computer! You'd better call me back, or I WILL tell somebody!" She flipped her phone shut angrily and shoved it into her purse. On her way out of the room she realized that the door to the press room was open. She strode furiously over to the door.

"Christine, if I find out that I went through all this trouble to find you and you're just hiding in there making out with some guy, I am going to be so…" Meg barged into the room. "…empty. Christine, Christine, where are you?"

Then she remembered something. Earlier that day, the Opera Ghost had said that Journalism would suffer first. Nothing had happened that morning, and everybody had forgotten because of the Bee Diddy concert. Had the Opera Ghost kidnapped Christine?

Meg looked around warily, her heart beating fast. Her eyes fell on the mirror.

The mirror that was now apparently a door leading into a dark tunnel.

No way. This could not be happening! That mirror had been there since her first day of high school! How could it possibly be some weird secret passageway? Meg crept toward it and confirmed her fears. She also found that the mirror was actually a two-way mirror. When she looked through it from behind, she could see into the press room.

Freaky. Meg wondered how much the Opera Ghost had seen. She thought back to all the times that she had done her makeup in front of this mirror, interviewed her reflection, or even made out in this room. She shuddered as she imagined the Opera Ghost leaning back in a recliner, watching the goings-on with interest as he munched on popcorn.

He must have brought Christine down this way. There was no other possible explanation for her absence. It was up to Meg to save her. She gulped and started down the passageway. She wondered briefly if she should get help, but decided against it. The mirror might not still be open when she returned.

Meg twisted and turned through the dark tunnels. "This is the last time you borrow my clothes," she muttered angrily as she jumped over a pile of dirt. Suddenly, something wet and heavy jumped onto her foot.

Meg shrieked and kicked it off, shuddering as she heard a solid _thunk!_ "Oh, how I detest rats!" she wailed. She froze as something warm and heavy landed on her shoulder. With a scream she knocked it off and spun around to see…

Mrs. Giry. The school librarian. Her mother.

"Mom!" Meg shouted accusingly. "You could at least give someone decent warning before you scare them half to death!"

Mrs. Giry said nothing. She took Meg's hand and dragged her back the way she came, muttering to herself.

"What do you know about the Opera Ghost?" Meg's question did not receive an answer. She persisted. "I overheard you talking to him, Mom! You know something."

"And you know something now, too," Mrs. Giry stated angrily. "You will not tell anyone. Not your friends, not the School Security, no one! Do you understand?"

"No!" Meg was confused. "We should tell the police about this, Mom. They'll be able to track him down!"

"That's precisely why you will _not_ tell anybody."

"But why?" Meg asked, totally not understanding. "Are you trying to protect him? What about Christine?"

Mrs. Giry was silent for a moment. Then she turned to look at Meg. "I suppose you know what happened to Miss Daae? Something much worse could happen to you if you tell a single soul about any of this. You must never come back here, Megan Giry. You're lucky that you didn't fall into any of his traps."

Meg said nothing, knowing she wouldn't get anything else out of her mother. She followed her in silence, desperately praying for Christine's safety.

The next morning, Meg arrived at school to find that Christine had not returned. The police were now involved, investigating the Journalism room and questioning some of the students. There was no doubt among any of the students that the Opera Ghost was responsible for Christine's abduction. Meg found grungy Joe Buquet having the time of his life scaring the wits out of Kaila, Sam, and Jessie.

"His skin is like yellow parchment, rough and disgusting," Joe said in a hushed tone. "Instead of a nose, he's got this big, gaping hole in the middle of his face. If you don't watch out, he'll catch you with…" he brandished a noose, "…his magical lasso!" He caught Jessie around the waist with the rope and pulled it tight.

Meg rescued her, loosening the rope and tugging it out of Joe's hands. "Those who talk freely often find later that it is better to be silent," she said warningly. "I would shut up about the Opera Ghost, you pervert. And keep your hand at the level of your eyes so nobody can do _this_." She slipped the noose around his neck and yanked it tight. "Take a shower, you pig!"

The girls relocated to Meg's cubicle. "Thanks, Meg," Jessie said with a shudder. "Buquet really freaks me out. He won't leave me alone. I'm glad Christine convinced him to move."

"Yeah, I'm glad we got rid of Bucket Guy," Sam said lazily, scratching her back. "He's just weird."

"Do you think that stuff about the Opera Ghost is true?" Kaila asked with wide eyes.

"I don't know, but don't gossip about it, whatever you do," Meg warned. "I know I wouldn't like to be talked about. We all know that this guy gets dangerous when he's angry."

* * *

Christine opened her eyes blearily. Oh, why did her alarm clock have to be so evil? Her pillow was so comfortable.

Wait. That cymbal-playing monkey music box wasn't her alarm clock, and those little pieces of heaven weren't her pillows! Christine didn't own a swan bed or thick, black gossamer curtains. Where the heck was she? Christine shivered, but it wasn't just because she was scared.

Her feet were cold. She glanced down and saw that someone had removed her shoes…and those stockings.

Those stockings that Meg said wouldn't come off, the ones that could only be removed if one undid the rubber bands at the top of her thighs.

Great. Just perfect. And now, on top of all that, she had a headache. Christine rubbed the back of her head and was appalled to find an enormous bump.

Soft, beautiful organ music floated toward her. Christine pushed aside the curtains and walked toward it, trying to remember what was going on.

"I remember there was mist," she whispered softly to her self, "swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake…" There was the lake, its green waters still and fragile-looking. "There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat…" Then it all came back to her.

"_And in the boat there was a man…_"

The Phantom turned from his organ and glanced at her, then returned to his work. Christine walked over to him, marveling at how mysterious he looked, dressed all in black except for his mask. She reached his side hesitantly, but he didn't look up. He looked so into his music.

Christine reached up gingerly and lightly touched the mask. It felt smooth and cool under her fingertips. She traced the edge of the mask, her fingers brushing against his hair. And then she realized that he was looking at her.

The music had stopped. He hadn't moved his head, but was staring at her out of the corner of his eyes, as if he was asking, "What are you doing?" Christine quickly withdrew her hand.

"Sorry," she muttered, looking at her feet. "I…I…sorry."

The Phantom didn't say anything. When Christine finally dared to look up, she found that he was smiling, smiling as if he was trying not to burst out in laughter. He scooted over on the organ bench and she sat down next to him, smiling shyly.

"So…am I to assume that you were responsible for the removal of my stockings?"

He didn't look at her, staring fixedly ahead. She could only see the masked side of his face. "I've never worn stockings, Christine, but I am rather under the impression that they are not very comfortable to sleep in…especially if you're holding them up with rubber bands." He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised.

"That was Meg's idea," Christine said, shaking her head and smiling. "She's eccentric, you know. She made me wear them. She'd probably kill me if anything happened to them."

"Quite insane, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely," Christine affirmed. "And she's proud of it. She goes around singing that Queen song, 'I'm Going Slightly Mad.'"

Nobody said anything for a while. The Phantom scribbled on a yellowing piece of paper with a fountain pen. Christine wrung her hands nervously. She wanted to ask him something, but had no idea how to address him. She decided on using the name that was the most familiar.

"Angel?"

The Phantom froze, as though startled by the name she had placed upon him. "Yes?"

Christine opened her mouth to ask him the question, but closed it. Instead she asked him, "Do you have a name?"

Silence met her inquiry. She elaborated, rambling on in her nervousness.

"I mean, Angel isn't your name, is it? Sorry if it is, because, well, I guess Angel's a perfectly good name for a man, even though it's usually a girl name, but that's okay because-"

"Erik."

"Erik?"

"Erik," he repeated calmly. "With a K. Not a C."

Christine mulled this over for a second. Before she could stop herself-

"Erik like Erik the Red? Or maybe Leif Erikson? Those Viking dudes? Are you Scandinavian? If so, that's pretty cool because…oh, well…that's not really my business, is it?"

Erik was watching her with an amused expression on his face. "No, not like Erik the Red or those Viking dudes. I'm not Scandinavian, either. I'm just Erik."

"You don't have a last name?" Christine asked.

"No."

"Why not?" she prompted.

"I don't need one."

"But didn't you ever have one?" Christine pushed.

"No."

"You were born without a last name? Didn't your parents have last names?"

"Yes, they did. I don't have one," Erik said shortly. "You're very nosy, Christine."

Christine glanced down at her feet. "Sorry. I told you before, I've got an insatiable curiosity."

"You were going to ask something before. What was it?"

"Oh, that," Christine said, wondering how he knew. "Um…about that picture. The one of me? How'd you…how'd you know…how could you possibly know what I looked like?"

"I did some research," Erik said, looking at the paper and frowning. He scratched something out. "I found out the name of the musical you were in, the character you played, and the costume details. It was easy enough to make you look younger, and I just imagined the expression on your face."

"I suppose you did have to imagine it," Christine said quietly, staring at her hands in her lap. "I don't really look like that anymore."

"You looked like that last night."

"What?" Christine looked up, confused. "What do you…" She trailed off with a spluttering sound as the events of the last night slammed back into her memory. She moaned and buried her face in her hands. She felt Erik's hand on her shoulder.

"Christine…? Are you all right?"

"No!" Christine heard how muffled her voice sounded, but she didn't particularly care at the moment. "I'm such a freakin' idiot! Walking around, singing some freakishly high-pitched song…and then there was that freaky cadenza thing, and…you must think I'm a freak."

Erik pulled Christine's hands away from her face. "You're not a freak, Christine. You happen to be a very talented singer."

Christine snorted. "Talented, my butt! I'm surprised the walls didn't come down when I was screeching like that!"

"You were _not_ screeching," Erik insisted firmly. He lifted Christine's chin so that she was forced to look into his eyes. "You were able to reach notes far beyond many people's range. You sang them beautifully. They were a little rough because you're untrained, but I will not let you believe that you were screeching."

"If you say so," Christine said disbelievingly. She shook her head. "I'm only supposed to be an alto! I'm not supposed to be able to go that high!"

"Alto? I think not." Erik's words were quiet, yet they contained all the power of a raging hurricane. His eyes blazed. "An alto would never be able to sing that high that well. You've been a soprano from the very start, Christine, and _you know it!_"

Christine gaped at Erik's sudden anger. She started to say something, but Erik cut her off. "Why don't you believe me? You heard yourself sing. I'm the Angel of Music, Christine, the Phantom of the Opera. I know what I'm talking about."

Christine took a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a long silence she said, "It doesn't matter, anyway. I told you, I don't sing anymore."

Erik shook his head, expressionless once more except for a hint of disappointment. "A pity. You're letting so much talent go to waste. It seems you're bound and determined not to admit that you're a good singer, so we'll just leave it at that. Just stop calling yourself an alto."

He stood up abruptly. "There are some extra clothes in that closet in your room, if you would like to change. Meet me back here when you are finished." He walked away without a backward glance.

When she opened the closet door Christine almost fainted. Erik had more clothes than Meg did, and that was saying something! Swooning, she flipped through all the expensive designer clothing and spent a long time picking out an outfit. She didn't usually flip out over clothing, but that was because she'd had to learn to make do with what she had, not having a lot of extra money to buy stuff. Christine wished there was a mirror in her room; she would have spent about three hours in front of it.

She wondered why on earth Erik would have such a large amount of women's clothing. Did he entertain guests regularly? Did these belong to someone else? Probably not- all the clothes looked brand new. They all fit her perfectly. Christine didn't dare to believe it; was all this for her?

When she finally reappeared by the organ, she found Erik waiting for her with a video camera.

"You're a good actress, aren't you? This should be very fun."

* * *

"Well, I'm sure you're you've all been wondering where I am."

"Hell, yes we were!" Meg yelled. The journalism class shushed her before turning back to the TV.

"I've been instructed to tell you that I haven't been beaten, threatened, raped, or harmed in any way. I'm safe…for now," the Christine on the television said. She was tied to the chair she was sitting in, and everything around her was draped in shadow. Meg heard the fear in her voice and groaned. She wished so dearly that she could tell someone about the secret passageway in the mirror. Her best friend had now been missing for two and a half days, and she was beginning to get very worried.

"However," Christine went on, trembling visibly, "if the school doesn't comply with the Phantom's demands, I don't think I'll be around much longer."

Several people gasped. Meg massaged her forehead, her eyes filling with tears.

"Please, please do what he says!" Christine cried, tears leaking down her face. Any calm that she had had before was gone, replaced with fearful desperation. "He only wants a few simple things! Raise the newspaper price, buy some new software, and get a bigger editing staff! That's all he wants! Please, I'm so scared!" Christine paused to take a few shaky breaths, and everyone leaned forward to hear her last words.

"He warned you. The Phantom warned you, and it's almost too late. Journalism suffered first, and we won't be the last! Please help me!"

* * *

A/N: I'm alive! I wasn't murdered or anything. I just suffered a severe case of writer's block. Oh my gosh, this chapter was so hard to write! The first part was the hardest because I was trying to work around lyrics.

So…what do you think? Good? Bad? Scary? Sickening? I'm open to suggestions. Please review! I love to hear your comments! Reviews are what kept me going all those long nights when I sat banging my head against the desk. Thanks for all your support!


	7. The Phantom's Fury

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me. I'm only borrowing it.

* * *

Chapter Seven

**-The Hayfield Times- **_**Volume 21, Special Report November 1, 2005**_

**Reporter Goes Missing, Phantom Suspected**

_by Kaila Towerson_

_Christine Daae, tenth grade reporter for _The Hayfield Times_, disappeared on Thursday, and recent evidence shows that the Phantom of the Opera may be responsible._

_Last Friday, the day after Daae disappeared, a video tape was found on the editors' desk in the Journalism classroom, which was where Daae was last seen. The video showed Daae in an unrecognizable place, where she stated that she had been kidnapped by the Phantom of the Opera, the infamous 'ghost' that haunts Hayfield High School. Daae begged school administrators to follow the Phantom's orders, which were to raise the school newspaper's price, buy new software for the newspaper, and hire more editors. In the video, Daae said that she feared for her life. School administrators and the police are working together to try to find Daae and her kidnapper. The Phantom has been offered all that he demanded._

_Students are warned to be cautious as they go about their daily activities. New school rules are now in place, stating that students may not leave class without a buddy. To see the details of these rules, speak to Mrs. Antoinette Giry in the library. Lynda Spurke, Hayfield's principal, assures students that the Phantom will soon be apprehended._

_"Don't worry about a thing. We'll soon have the criminal, and Miss Daae will be back where she belongs," Spurke said._

Christine walked around the many models that Erik kept in his home. There were several that depicted her school before she had come, when it was old-fashioned, drab, and falling apart. There were a few that showed the school halfway through the renovations, the stage it was in now. Some parts of the building looked new and very cool, contrasting strongly with the crummy half of the school. Trailers crowded around these models. But then there were models of the future Hayfield High School, blazing with purple, black, and white splashes of color. The entire establishment seemed to blaze with innovative architectural brilliance, and Christine wondered if it had been designed by the Phantom of the Opera himself.

She paused in front of an open-roofed model of the main hallway. It was lined with lockers, just as the real one was, and all of them had doors that opened and closed. There were vending machines, posters on the walls, double doors that led to the auditorium, and a lot more detail, but what interested Christine most was the wax figures. All along the hallway stood wax figures of real students from Hayfield High. Christine recognized Kaila Towerson, Sam Marjon, Meg Giry, and many more of her peers. The figures had joints that moved, clothing that could be changed, and magnetic accessories such as textbooks, purses, and in some cases, reporter's notebooks…

Christine picked up the miniature version of herself and grinned. Mini-Christine was dressed in jeans and a red tank top, wearing a cute black newsboy cap. She was holding a pencil and a reporter's notebook and had previously been standing outside a doorway, her head tilted as if she were eavesdropping.

"I want that hat," Christine muttered to herself. "That is the cutest thing I've ever seen."

"Then you may have it."

Christine jumped as a voice spoke out behind her. She wheeled around to face the masked face of Erik, who had, once again, sneaked up on her. He reached out and set a black newsboy cap, identical to Mini-Christine's, on her head.

"Wow! Thank you," Christine said happily, tilting it at a jaunty angle. Her eyes met Erik's green ones, and she looked away, blushing. "What have you been up to?"

"Spying," Erik replied guardedly.

"Who were you spying on?" Christine pressed. It was always so hard to get any information out of him.

"The school administrators," Erik told her, removing his cloak and draping it on a chair. "They were meeting in your principal's office. They've been very worried about you these past few days."

"What about my dad?" Christine inquired. "Has he been involved?"

"Very. Hasn't he been calling every once in a while?"

Right on cue, the ringtone version of 'Cinderella' by Bee Diddy rang from Christine's cell. She was beginning to regret not leaving it in the Journalism classroom with her purse.

"That would be him," she sighed. When the phone stopped ringing she pulled it out of her pocket and turned it off.

"You'll be interested to know that your singer friend Bee Diddy is now involved in the search," Erik said over his shoulder, walking away.

Christine followed him. "Really? That's cool!"

"I recall her saying that since she was in the area she would help out, she didn't feel like visiting all the boring monuments anyway," Erik continued.

"Well, if there's one thing Washington, D.C. has, it's boring monuments," Christine mumbled. "That and traffic. At least out here in the suburbs it's not as bad. It does get pretty clogged sometimes, but in the city it gets absolutely horrible. I find it's better to take the Metro, even if you have to pay for it and walk a little bit. It's fun, too. Better than sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for hours…" She trailed off. "Oh, sorry. I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

Erik was watching her interestedly. "I like to hear you talk."

Christine felt her face flush. "Um…really? Meg usually tells me to shut up when I start rambling like that."

Erik shook his head. "Usually it's too quiet down here. You have a beautiful voice, Christine. I wish you would use it to sing."

Christine turned away. "I think I'm going to go get some rest," she said abruptly. She walked to her room, and immediately wished there was a door she could shut. She collapsed on the swan bed. She would have absolutely loved to sing, but after her mother died… There was no possible way.

She turned on her cell phone and listened to her messages for the first time in a week. There were countless messages from her dad, loads of anxious messages from police, teachers and friends, and even one furious message from Meg. She wished with all her heart that she could let them know she was safe. But if she called any of them, the police could track her cell phone all the way down to the subterranean lake. She was taking risks already just by having a cell phone with her. The last thing she wanted to do was expose Erik.

Christine sighed. She enjoyed spending time in the lair of her mysterious masked angel, but homesickness was beginning to gnaw at her. She didn't want to leave, but… what about her dad? He must have been scared to death.

She rolled over and tried to take a nap.

* * *

Andre anxiously drummed his fingers on his desk. "Well, we've got more editors now. Our only problem is that we've got no reporters!"

"What am I, a duck?" Meg Giry said crossly as she walked by.

"You're right," Firmin agreed. "We can have a typo-free newspaper, but only if we can get someone to write the articles."

"With all the juniors gone, that Daae chick missing, and people changing courses because they're scared, we've got almost no one left," Andre grumbled. "I don't know about you, but I'm certainly not good at digging up dirt."

"I know somebody who is," Firmin said thoughtfully. "But it won't be easy to get her to take on the job…"

He swiveled around in his chair and knocked on the closet door behind him. "Hey, Sandy!"

Christine woke up abruptly from her catnap. Erik was playing his organ. She loved to hear him play. He played with such enthusiasm and passion that Christine was enthralled every time he sat down at the bench.

She listened closely; it sounded like he was playing the music from an opera he was writing. It was called _Don Juan Triumphant!_ Erik had never let Christine look at the score, but from listening to what he played, she got the feeling that it was rather a naughty production.

Christine rolled out of the swan bed and walked over to stand next to the organ. She wasn't sure whether or not he was aware of her presence; he seemed to be deeply into the music. Christine watched him closely. His hands roved over the keys effortlessly, his green eyes watching the music carefully. Every once in a while he would close his eyes and play from memory, relishing the sound of the music.

Christine sighed wistfully, gazing at the white mask that covered half of Erik's face. What was under the mask? She had never asked, and something told her that he wouldn't tell her if she did. She stepped closer to him and saw him glance at her briefly before returning to his music.

He was dressed all in black, except for his mask, giving him the look of a gothic angel. Candlelight glanced weakly off the white porcelain, making it seem to shine. That mask was so mysterious, just like him. The music Erik was playing was filling her brain with strange, misty thoughts. Conscious thought began to elude her.

Without realizing it, Christine had slowly reached up and touched the mask. She didn't know why she did that, but she didn't want to think about it. It felt smooth and cool under her fingertips. She traced the edge gently with one finger and wondered again… _What lies under the mask?_

Suddenly, the music stopped. Christine felt like she had been jolted awake from a peaceful slumber. Practical thoughts returned to her mind. She gasped.

She was holding Erik's mask in her hands!

At that moment, she could have screamed at herself. _Christine! What have you done?_ Fearfully, she looked up at the infuriated musician. She caught a glance of twisted, mangled skin before he shoved her away. She fell to the ground, and he stormed away, screaming and covering his face with a hand.

"Damn you!" he roared. "You little prying Pandora! You vixen! Is this what you wanted to see?"

Christine cowered against the organ, the mask lying forgotten beside her. "Erik, please!" she cried. "I'm sorry!"

"Curse you!" he bellowed even louder, his eyes like the very pits of hell. "You little lying Delilah! You little viper!" He turned away from her, striking a tall candlestick to the ground in his fury. "Damn you, Christine…curse you…"

Christine buried her face in her hands, afraid to look at the furious man. What had happened to her kind, silent maestro?

_You killed him. You took away his mask and took away his shelter from the world, turning him into this defensive animal. This man has probably seen nothing but hatred from this world, and you just made it worse. Just when everything was going so well…_

She dared to peer through her fingers at Erik. He slowly sank to his knees, his face twisted in a grimace of pain. His lips parted in a mournful whisper. "It doesn't have to be this way." Green eyes that were glistening with tears of anger and sadness looked up at her desperately. "There doesn't have to be this fear. You can learn to look beyond this carcass of a visage, to see the man in the monster, this repulsive gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for the light of heaven…"

Christine stared at him, breathing hard. What was she expected to say to all this?

Erik's head dropped, and the connection between their eyes was broken. "Oh, Christine…" he whispered mournfully.

Christine bowed her head in shame. What had she done? One little slip and she had ruined everything. Little Lotte had betrayed her Angel of Music's trust, something that couldn't possibly be regained.

She noticed the mask lying on the ground, and picked it up. She dusted it off, cursing her insatiable curiosity. She held it out to its owner. Erik took it without looking at her. He straightened up, turned around, and replaced the mask. He stared at the wall for a long time before turning to face her, a grim look in his eyes.

"I think it's time for you to go home."

* * *

"Please!" Andre begged. "You're the best writer within a hundred mile radius!"

"You're our only hope!" Firmin wheedled. "If you won't do it for us, then do it for the newspaper!"

"No!" Sandy stomped toward the classroom door. "I won't be persuaded into working for a pair of gay suck-ups like you! Editors, my ass!"

The two editors-in-chief gawked for a moment, bewildered. Then they rushed after her as she strode into the hallway.

"Sandy, wait!"

"We need you!"

"The newspaper will suffer!"

A mob of students crowded around them, shouting eagerly. Perhaps fifty people were there, holding bathroom passes and begging for an update about the missing reporter and her dangerous kidnapper.

"Have you heard anything about that missing sophomore yet?"

"Did the police find the Opera Ghost?"

"Are they going to close down the school?"

The fired editor and her successors backed quickly into the classroom again, shutting the door in the students' faces.

"Your public needs you," Firmin told Sandy.

"We need you, too," Andre insisted. "Did you see them out there? They wanted news, and we can't give it to them without you!"

For a moment Sandy looked convinced, but then she glared at them. "Yeah, right. You think I don't know you're coming to me as a last resort? I know that in reality, you really want that stupid little sophomore for the job! Am I right?"

Andre and Firmin shook their heads in unison. "Sandy, no. Hayfield wants you."

Sandy bit her lip. The editors stared at her hopefully. Finally, she huffed impatiently. "Fine, I'll do it for the public!"

The editors sighed in relief.

* * *

Christine followed Erik through the darkness, tears slipping down her face. If only she could have kept her stupid hands to herself!

She heard Erik's footsteps stop abruptly, his cloak swooshing quietly.

"We are directly above the Journalism classroom. It is 7:45, in the middle of first period. This is where we part."

"Erik…" Christine looked down at her feet. "…I really am sorry."

"You will tell anyone who asks that you hit your head and can't remember being kidnapped, or any of the time we were together." Erik carried on briskly as though he hadn't heard her. "You still have a large bump on your head to use as proof. Tomorrow when you come to school, you will find completed homework from the days you missed in your locker, along with notes from any lectures. Give this to your principal."

He shoved what felt like an envelope into Christine's hand.

"And, Christine? Forgive me." He shoved Christine forward, and she fell, screaming, into a pit of darkness. _Bang! Whack! Clong!_ She smacked into flimsy metal and saw stars. A second later she was sprawled out on a carpeted floor, squinting in the bright light. She stared up at the ceiling and saw that she had fallen through a ventilation shaft.

"Christine?"

Christine looked around. She was, indeed, in the Journalism room, and just about everyone in the class was staring over the tops of their cubicles at her. Christine blinked in astonishment. "Um…hi?"

A moment later she was practically being smothered to death by Meg Giry.

"I thought you were dead!" Meg sobbed. "Where did you go?"

"Meg, let me go! I can't breathe!" Christine groaned. She pushed her friend away and smiled weakly. "It's nice to see you again."

"What happened?" Meg asked insistently.

"I…don't know," Christine said slowly, trying to look confused. "I can't really remember anything except this long blackness, and then falling." She shrugged. "My head kind of hurts." That part wasn't a lie; her head ached from where she had smacked it during her fall.

Meg smacked her about the head. "That's for not even answering your bloody cell phone!" she yelled. "And don't give me that crap about not having any minutes left!"

Christine backed away. "I'm sorry, jeez!" she yelped, rubbing her head.

Meg stood up and helped her friend to her feet. "I guess we'd better tell the principal that you're back," she mused. "This is going to be one chaotic morning."

"Um, yeah," Christine muttered, trying to tuck the envelope inconspicuously into her pocket. "Sure."

They entered Meg's cubicle, where she called the school administration. While she did that, Christine checked the school's website for homework assignments, even though she knew she wasn't going to do any of it.

"I guess I missed a lot of homework," she said aloud, glancing up at Meg. "And I really need to get started on an article for the _Times_…"

Meg hung up the phone. "No, you don't. Sandy's substituting for you."

"What?" Christine yelped. "No! That's _my_ article!"

Meg shrugged. "Our dear old editors were thinking about the business as usual. There's really not much you can do about it now."

Seething, Christine crumbled up a sheet of paper. "That's not fair!"

"Watch it!" Meg barked. "That's my English homework!"

Christine tossed it at her. "I'm going to go talk some sense into those stupid, gay pigs." She stomped out of Meg's work area and approached the editors' desks purposefully.

Andre was the only one around. He was holding a large box of chocolates and seemed to be on his way to Sandy's closet. He jumped when he saw Christine, the chocolate tumbling out of his hands. "It's you!" he shouted. He frowned. "Um… Clarissa? No, Charlotte! No, that's not it either. Um, Tina?"

"It's Christine," Christine said coolly, leaning on his desk. "I have a bone to pick with you and Firmin."

Andre picked up the box of chocolates and edged toward Sandy's office. "Well, sorry. It'll have to wait. I've got… _business_ to attend to." He disappeared into the tiny closet.

"Wait a second!" Christine yelled. "I'm still talking to you!"

"I wanted peanut butter, not caramel! Fix it… and get me a soda, _now!_" Christine heard Sandy yelling through the closed door. A second later, Firmin bustled out. He gasped when he saw Christine.

"You're back!" he yelped. He paused, frowning. He snapped his fingers. "Um, Clara? No, Marissa? Crystal?"

"My name is _Christine!_" Christine shouted.

"Yeah, Christine. If you'll excuse me…" Firmin ran quickly toward the door.

"Oh no, you don't!" Christine yelled, but he was gone. She slammed her fist on the desk. She paced back and forth across the room until Firmin returned.

He tried avoiding her by running to Sandy's closet, but at the same moment he reached it, Andre ran out. They smacked into each other and fell to the ground, knocking over a file cabinet in the process.

Christine stomped over to them. "Finally! I want a word with you."

Firmin rubbed his head where he had smacked it against the wall. "We're really, really busy at the moment…"

Andre emerged from a pile of scattered printer paper. "Yeah. We don't have time…"

"I want my article back," Christine stated bluntly.

The editors glanced at each other. "That's not really possible," Firmin mumbled, not meeting Christine's eyes.

"Why not?" Christine inquired angrily. "I know you have room! All those reporters quit. There's no possible way you couldn't have room!"

"Well, we already made the dummy copy," Andre muttered, putting the printer paper on a shelf.

"So make another one!" Christine snapped. "Take out some of those useless advertisements for the student store! Nobody pays attention to those, anyway!"

"We can't do that," Firmin mumbled, tugging on his shirt collar. "Sandy wouldn't let us change it this close to the deadline."

"In the past you've changed it five minutes before the deadline!" Christine reminded him furiously. "The deadline is days away! And since when has Sandy been the boss of you?"

"Um, never," Andre said hesitantly. "She…she just gives us advice."

"So? You can do whatever you want!" Christine shouted. "You don't have to listen to her!"

Andre huffed as he got to his feet. "I'm done being nice," he grumbled. "I'm going to say this bluntly, Cindy."

_"Christine!"_

"Whatever." Andre pulled Firmin to his feet and faced Christine with a grim expression. "Sandy is the best that there is, and she'll only write for us as long as you don't get a space in the newspaper. Goodbye." The editors disappeared into Sandy's office.

Christine stared after them, her mouth hanging open. She sputtered for a second until she found her voice. "You stupid, gay maggots! You're so freakin' stupid, obeying that prissy biotch of a prima donna like sniveling lapdogs! YOU DAMNABLE, STUPID, IDIOTS!"

"What did you just say?"

Christine wheeled around, her eyes as wide as tennis balls. There, standing before her, in a maroon business suit, was the supreme ruler of Hayfield High School- the principal, Lynda Spurke. She raised an eyebrow at Christine's choice of words.

"Uh!" Christine panicked. "I just! I… Ohhh, owwww, my heaaad!" She sank to the ground, clutching her head.

Mrs. Spurke helped her to her feet, looking concerned. "Come with me, Miss Daae. I'll take you to the nurse and get your father on the phone."

For the rest of the day, Christine was interrogated by the school administration and the police. The family doctor came to inspect her head and diagnosed her with a mild case of amnesia, setting up a date for a more thorough checkup. Christine's friend Sam came to interview her for _The Hayfield Times_, but Christine refused to grant an interview to the junior who came from the Journalism Club. She made sure to deliver Erik's note to Mrs. Spurke, but she didn't get to see her principal's reaction because her dad showed up and immediately wrapped her up in a big bear hug.

Bee Diddy arrived soon after Mr. Daae did, unwillingly bringing her band, backstage crew, handlers, sponsors, and screaming fangirls with her. It got extremely chaotic then, but Christine still got three free ringtones, an autographed B. D. poster, and a set of tickets and backstage passes to Bee's next concert out of it.

After all the commotion died down at the end of the day, Christine insisted on running to the Journalism classroom. She confronted the two editors as they were closing up shop.

"Please let me write an article!" Christine begged.

Firmin rolled his eyes. "Misty, we already told you our answer."

"It's Christine," the distressed reporter interrupted.

"Whatever!" Firmin huffed. "The answer is still no!"

Sandy entered the room dramatically, coming out of her little closet. She sniffed. "Just go home, Daae. You won't win. No arrogant, wet-behind-the-ears little sophomore is going to besmirch my newspaper!"

"It's not your newspaper, Sandy!" Christine growled. "It never was, and it certainly isn't now! In case you haven't noticed, you've been replaced by two blundering oafs!"

Sandy snorted. "Go join the Journalism Club."

If looks could kill, Christine was sure that Sandy would have been lying as dead as a doornail on top of the desk. She turned and stomped out of the office, still fuming.

"What a jerk," she hissed under her breath. "She's so full of herself!"

Christine stopped by her locker to pick up a textbook. Her father had told her repeatedly that she could stay home for the rest of the week, but since there really was nothing wrong with her and she didn't feel like getting any more behind, Christine had opted to attend school anyway. She kicked her locker savagely before opening it. When she wrenched the rusty blue door open, she was met with a surprise.

Lying on the top shelf was her black newsboy cap, the one she had left in Erik's lair. Sitting next to it was a red rose with a black ribbon tied around the stem. Christine picked up the hat and found there was a note pinned inside it.

_Leave Sandy to me. Write your article._

_-O.G._

* * *

A/N: Hey, people! Sorry about the long wait. I actually started writing this chapter over a week ago, but I went on vacation and didn't have my laptop with me. Please review! Questions, comments, and concerns are all accepted! If you don't feel like writing a review but you enjoyed this chapter, please do me a favor and just send in a review that says "!" or something. Thanks for reading The Hayfield Times!


	8. The Ace Bodyguard

Disclaimer: Yeah. The Phantom of the Opera is not mine. Never was, never will be. Sadly.

**

* * *

**

Chapter Eight

**-The Hayfield Times- **_**Volume 21, Special Report. November 2, 2005**_

**Missing Student Returns!**

_by Sam Marjon_

_The recently kidnapped Christine Daae, tenth grade student and reporter for the Hayfield Times, has suddenly and unexpectedly been returned to the Journalism classroom._

_Daae was present in school for the first half of the day that she disappeared. She was last seen by popular sophomore quarterback Raoul Chagny, who insisted he had nothing to do with Daae's disappearance. Chagny says that he and Daae were in the Journalism classroom during lunch, and she asked him to buy her something from the cafeteria._

_"I left her alone for five minutes and she disappeared," a distressed Chagny said._

_However, sophomore Meg Giry, a friend of Daae's, was the one to report Daae missing. "I don't know what Raoul was thinking. He's so stupid, not telling anyone. I was so freaked out when I couldn't find Christine," Giry told the _Times.

_The first period Journalism class was shocked when Daae fell out of the ceiling yesterday morning. Daae seemed to be in a state of shock, but one of the first things she did upon arriving was to berate the editors, seniors Richard Firmin and Giles Andre, for not giving her a space in the upcoming edition of the school newspaper. Apparently, not even being kidnapped will keep this reporter from doing her job._

_Daae claims to have hit her head and supposedly can't remember anything about her disappearance. A letter she delivered to Principal Lynda Spurke from the infamous Opera Ghost has made school security officials very wary about the safety of the school. The heightened security policy has not been dropped as Hayfield administrators continue to investigate the matter of the Opera Ghost._

Christine drummed her fingers on her desk, frowning at the screen saver on her computer. Writer's Block was a truly terrible thing. If only she actually had writer's block, instead of the terrible dilemma of not even having something to write about.

Deciding to procrastinate a bit, she got up and walked over to Meg's cubicle.

"Hey, Meg," she said cheerfully. "Whatcha doing?"

Meg didn't look up from her computer screen. "Writing, like you should be doing," she replied irritably.

"Want to go get something to eat?" Christine asked hopefully. "The lunch ladies never fail to sell us something between classes, even if it's against the rules."

Meg looked up at her with a reprimanding look in her eyes. "Christine, I've seen this attitude before. You're procrastinating, and it only leads to severe crisis. Go get to work." She turned back to her computer.

Christine pouted. "Aw, Meg…"

"Scram!"

As she scowled and turned to leave, Christine noticed Meg's purse hanging on a hook by the doorway. A quick look told her Meg was still absorbed with her work. Christine plunged her hand into the depths of Meg's purse and rummaged around until her fingers closed on a cell phone. Grinning evilly, she swiped it and replaced it with her own phone, thinking that she might call it later and force Meg to come visit to get her beloved electronic back.

Sticking the camera phone into her hoodie pocket, Christine strolled back to her cubicle, whistling merrily. Then she sat at her desk for another ten minutes, staring at her screen saver again. She started debating whether or not to pull off her cell phone prank, wondering if Meg would kill her. Meg was quite possessive of her phone.

The telephone on her desk rang. Christine quickly snatched it up. "Hayfield Times, this is Christine speaking."

"Hey, girl! Guess who it is!"

Christine dropped the telephone, gasping. She grabbed it off the floor. "Well, it had better not be Meg playing a trick on me. Please say you're not Meg!"

"Whoever Meg is, nope."

Christine squealed like the fangirl she was. "Bee Diddy! I can't believe you're calling me!"

Bee chuckled. "Don't sound so surprised. How's it going?"

"As well as it could be going when I've supposedly just gotten back from being kidnapped and have an upcoming deadline with nothing to write about," Christine said wryly, playing the part of the clueless victim.

"Nothing to write about. What a crime for a writer," Bee sighed. "It's like one of those days when I'm trying to write a song, but no lyrics spring to my fingertips."

"You write your own lyrics?" Christine gawked. "No way."

"Way." Bee insisted.

"That is so cool!" Christine giggled. "I never knew that all your songs were Bee Diddy originals."

"Well, they are. All my songs come from something I've felt or experienced in my life," Bee told her. "I started writing in middle school, seventh grade to be exact. The ideas started spinning when my friend took some class, Creative Writing, I think… She had to write a song, and even though it was pretty dorky, it sparked my imagination."

"That is so awesome!" Christine gushed. "Not just a pretty face or a pretty voice… Bee Diddy even writes her own lyrics. If only I could be like-"

"Daae! If you're not doing legitimate journalism work, hang up the phone!" Sandy shouted over the top of Christine's cubicle. "We can't afford to pay for all your ditzy conversations!"

Christine glared at her. "Go join the Journalism Club, Sandy." She turned her attention back to the phone. "Bee, I gotta go. One of the editors is being a complete biotch."

Sandy stomped away.

"Hey, why don't you come see me?" Bee sounded very excited all of a sudden.

"Um, I'm not exactly allowed to leave the campus," Christine told her, biting her lip.

"We can work around that," Bee said briskly. "I'm doing absolutely nothing because the concert thingy I was supposed to do today got cancelled. Tell me, all-knowing journalist, are there any trailers open during first period?"

Christine rolled her chair to the other side of the cubicle and picked a thick reference binder off of a shelf. She skipped over the section of student schedules and flipped through the various schedules of all the teachers in the school. "Well, Mrs. Flipski has first period off. I got an A on her grammar test yesterday, so I'm sure I can work out something…"

Fifteen minutes later, Christine was walking across the misty school grounds, expertly dodging a bulldozer that rumbled by. She approached Mrs. Flipski's trailer, but found her way was barred by a huge, hefty hunk of a guy, with enormous, well-muscled arms that were covered with black hair. The hair on his head, however, was showing obvious signs of thinning.

"Excuse me, but I'm here to see Bee Diddy," Christine said tentatively, craning her head back to look the man in the eye.

The man grunted. "No press allowed."

Christine frowned. "I'm not with the press. I'm just here as a…" She looked down and saw that her press pass was sticking out of her hoodie pocket, just enough so that the word "PRESS" could be seen. "Ah."

Christine looked up at the enormous man, plastering a huge grin across her face. "You see, I'm only carrying my press pass so I can get out of class. I'm not doing an article on Bee. Look, here's my reporter's notebook. I've got nothing in there about her."

She handed the man her notebook to inspect, but he ripped the entire thing in half and tossed it away. "You're pitiful, paparazzi wannabe."

Christine stared in horror at the sheets of paper drifting to the ground. "That was my notebook! It cost me seven dollars!"

The man scowled. "Tough. Buy a new one."

Christine glared up at him. "Well, maybe I don't have seven dollars to spare! Maybe money's a little tight at home. Maybe I had seven dollars but had to use it to pay for lunch. Exactly who do you think you are, Mister?"

The man leaned down close to her, scowling angrily. She could feel his garlic-tinted breath on her face. "Matthew Blackout, Ace Bodyguard of International Superstar Bee Diddy. Have you ever tasted a knuckle sandwich?"

Christine stepped back, eyes wide. "Um…no."

Matthew cracked his knuckles. "Well, if you don't back off right now, you're going to taste the best one this side of Pittsburgh."

The hefty bodyguard towered over the frightened reporter. Christine shook in her shoes, mouthing wordlessly. Then she swallowed and tried to look defiant. When in doubt, refer to the law.

"Excuse me, but you aren't allowed to threaten me like that. I'm guaranteed a safe learning environment, and you are infringing my rights. I could report you to the school administration and get your Ace Bodyguard ass fired!" Feeling bold, she added, "What now, Matty? Huh?" She smirked rebelliously at him.

Matthew's eyes narrowed, and a low growling sound emitted from his throat. Christine took a step back, having just learned a very important life lesson: Unless you want your limbs torn off of your body, don't go insulting an angry bodyguard.

Roaring loudly, Matthew lunged forward. Christine screamed and ran for her life, circling around the trailer. "Help! Somebody help me! Stranger danger! Fire! Murder! Rape! Tsunami!" She ran out of emergencies to scream, and so resorted to shrieking wordlessly. Matthew appeared around the other side of the trailer and charged toward her. Christine skidded to a halt and ran around the other way. "Help me!"

She dared to look back, but only to find that the enraged bodyguard was ten feet behind her and gaining ground quickly. On a desperate whim, Christine pulled Meg's cell phone out of her pocket and whipped it open, blazing through the toolbox section.

Just as Matthew was about to tackle her, Christine spun around and snapped a picture of him, the flash blasting out like lightning.

Temporarily dazed by the flash, Matthew stopped in his tracks. Christine ran ahead. "Bee! Help me!"

A pounding of feet on the pavement told her Matthew was catching up. Christine screeched and tried to run faster, circling once more around the trailer. Just as she was sure she was about to be tackled, she heard a loud thump, accompanied by a groan from Matthew. She wheeled around to see the ace bodyguard sprawled on the ground and a black boot disappearing under the trailer. Not pausing to ponder this, Christine ran to the trailer door and banged on it. "Bee, let me in! Your bodyguard's gonna kill me!"

"Damn straight he is!" the bodyguard in question bellowed, running up behind her.

The door banged open. Bee Diddy peered out, looking alarmed, and then rolled her eyes. "For crying out loud… Matthew! _Heel!_"

The bodyguard froze, expression turning sour.

Bee's eyes flashed. "_Matthew!_" she called in a warning tone.

Matthew trudged angrily up the stairs to stand next to his employer.

Bee glared at him. "Bad boy, Matthew. Sit!"

Rolling his eyes, Matthew plopped down onto the damp wood stairs. He looked quite irritated with the pop star's degrading attitude.

"Stay," Bee ordered. "Come on in, Christine."

Christine tiptoed past the fuming Matthew and entered the trailer.

Bee slammed the door and sat down on a desk with an apologetic grin on her face. "Sorry about him," she said, jerking her head toward the door. "Matthew takes his job a little too seriously. He does come in handy, though."

"Like when?"

Bee thought about this. "Like…when he has to hold back a multitude of screaming fans, or when he has to beat someone up because they tried to steal my hat to hawk off on EBay. I also find him extremely useful when my dorky friend won't answer her phone, email, or IM."

Christine stared at her. "I'm not even going to ask."

Bee picked up a Starbucks cup. "So, you said you were having some writer's block issues," she said between sips of frappucino.

"Yeah," Christine sighed, making herself comfortable on a desk. "I can't find a topic to write about. It seems like there's nothing going on!"

Bee raised an eyebrow at her. "Nothing going on? You just get kidnapped by some ghost that's haunting your school and you say there's nothing going on?"

"I was trying to forget that, thanks," Christine muttered. "That would be nice, but other people already have that covered."

Bee twisted a lock of red hair around her finger. "Well…what about stuff that isn't so major? Like…renovation?"

Christine shook her head. "There's an update once a week on our website. And nobody cares."

"How about celebrity gossip? You could dig up some dirt on some of your school athletes' personal lives," Bee suggested.

"We're not supposed to do that," Christine said thoughtfully, thinking of the Hayfield Reporter's Code of Conduct she had signed upon entering the class. "And I wouldn't have enough time to dig up satisfactory dirt. Our articles are due after school today."

Bee frowned. "That's not good, is it?"

"No, it most certainly is not." Christine shook her head, a feeling of doom settling over her.

Outside the trailer, someone started shrieking very loudly in either Spanish or Italian; Christine couldn't tell which.

"What on earth…?" Bee looked out the window.

Christine looked as well. "Ah. Carlotta Guidicelli, the reigning diva of Hayfield's gallant theatre. Rehearsals must not be going so well." She chuckled as the drama teacher who was running after Carlotta got a very baffled expression on her face. Obviously she couldn't understand Italian. Or Spanish. Whichever language it was.

"Which play are they doing?" Bee asked, shaking her head at the diva.

"Rumor says it's _The Sound of Music_," Christine informed her. "They all must be pretty stressed, what with opening night coming up soon."

"Aha!" Bee cried, a finger shooting into the air. "There's your article. You go down there and scope out the news on the drama front! Not only will you have a mucho-interesting article, you'll advertise the production. It's brilliant!"

"That _is_ brilliant," Christine remarked, wondering why she hadn't thought of it before. "Bee, you're a genius!"

"I know I am," Bee said smugly. "I'm also very modest, in case you hadn't noticed."

Christine's hoodie pocket started vibrating, and then a pop song started playing loudly. Bee gasped and squealed, obviously delighted. "That's one of my songs!" she giggled, starting to dance a bit.

Christine wasn't quite as happy as she pulled Meg's cell phone out of her pocket. Her feeling of dread increased as she saw the name on the caller id- _Christine_. She tentatively flipped open the cell phone.

"Um…hi, Meg."

"Christine, I'm giving you three seconds to explain where you are and where you've taken my cell phone," Meg said in a forced calm tone. Her voice that suggested she was about to blow up.

Christine cringed. "Well, you see…"

"GET YOUR SKINNY LITTLE BUTT AND MY CELL PHONE BACK HERE _NOW!_"

Christine held the phone away from her ear as Meg continued to rant.

"I was busy working on my article, like you should be right now! Imagine my surprise when my cell phone started ringing with some weird ringtone that I've never heard in my life," Meg growled. "So I pulled out the phone and looked at the caller id. It says 'Dad'. Imagine how confused I was then, seeing as my dad has been dead for years. But then I looked at the phone again and realized…it wasn't mine. Where is it, Christine? _Where's my phone?_"

Christine took a deep breath. "Okay, before you say anything, I want you to know that your cell saved my life."

Meg snorted. "It saved your life. Yeah, it just came flying through the air with its little cape and mask and defeated the bad guy with its laser vision. I wasn't born yesterday, Christine!"

"Actually, you weren't too far off from the truth," Christine said wryly. "But Meg, you'll never guess who I'm sitting with right now."

"Who?"

"Bee Diddy!"

Christine could almost see Meg roll her eyes. "Good God, Christine, you're a terrible liar."

"It's true!" Christine insisted. "Here, I'll put her on!"

"Christine, I don't want to waste my minutes listening to you pretending to be Bee Diddy."

"Just trust me." Christine handed the phone to a very amused Bee. "Here. Talk to Meg."

Bee turned the speakerphone on. "Hi, Meg. What's kickin'?"

Meg chuckled on the other end of the line. "Wow, Christine. That's a pretty good impression."

"No, I'm seriously Bee Diddy," Bee insisted. "The one and only."

"I'm not falling for that," Meg said, sounding very exasperated. "Just get back to the classroom before our dearest, darlingest editor Sandy freaks out."

Bee glared at the phone. "That's not funny, girl. Do you need me to sing for you?"

They heard Meg snort in amusement. "Okay, Christine. Go ahead, try to imitate the world's favorite superstar. Have at it. Do 'Free Girl,' that's a good one."

Bee shot an amused look at Christine. "Okay. I hope a cappella's okay, because my band's still at the hotel." With that, Bee Diddy, the world's favorite superstar, burst into song.

"_Drivin' on the road to stardom, freedom,_

_And never once looking back._

_I never thought-_**"**

A loud shriek erupted from the phone. Bee dropped it in alarm. Meg's voice squealed up at them from the floor. "_Oh-emmm-geeeeeeeee!_ It's Bee Diddy!"

"Told you," Christine said, picking up the phone.

"Where are you, Christine? Why isn't the entire school mobbing her?"

"I can't tell you; otherwise, the entire school _will_ be mobbing her," Christine said wryly.

"Are you interviewing her?" Meg inquired. "As cool as it sounds, you've already done that."

"No, we're just chatting," Christine told her. "She gave me an idea for an article."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"Meg?"

"I can't believe you're on speaking terms with _Bee Diddy_," Meg gushed in awed tones. "You have to get me an autograph!"

"I'll see what I can do." Christine saw Bee rolling her eyes. "I gotta go, Meg. If Sandy asks, I'm conducting an interview."

"Okay, but class ends in about two minutes," Meg warned her.

"I'll see you in second period. Bye." Christine hung up and shoved the cell phone into her hoodie pocket. "I'm not going to ask you for an autograph," she told Bee.

The pop star sighed in relief. "Thanks. You have no idea how old that's gotten."

Christine stood up. "I need to get back to class. You'd better leave, too, before Meg lets the cat out of the bag and the school tracks you down… or the administration finds out, arrests you, and suspends me. Thanks for the help."

Bee grinned a thousand-watt smile. "No problem, Christine."

Christine exited the trailer, then jumped as Matthew cleared his throat, glaring up at her from his position on the porch.

"I'm leaving!" she yelped, leaping off the tiny porch. "See? I'm not doing anything."

Christine knew she wasn't going to get back to Journalism on time. But her second-period teacher had started giving out detentions for being late to class, so she decided to put a little spring in her step. She ran through the remodeled main hallway of the school, veering off to take a detour through a dusty, dimly-lit hallway that people seldom used except to access their lockers.

A rattling noise made her pause. She looked around at the rusty lockers to her left. It had almost sounded as though someone was knocking from the inside of one of them…

"_Christine._"

_Bangbangbang!_

Christine inched closer to the locker that seemed to be the source of the ruckus. "Erik, is that you?"

The locker swung open, and the school's resident ghost stepped out of it. "Indeed it is."

Christine's eyes bugged out of her head. "How did you-"

"Never mind," Erik interrupted smoothly, the unmasked half of his face looking deadly serious. "Are you all right? That stupid oaf didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No, I'm fine," Christine assured him. "That was you who tripped him, wasn't it? I didn't know you lurked under trailers in your free time. Ah! Speaking of time, I really need to go."

"You don't," Erik told her. "The bell won't be ringing for another five minutes. Trust me."

Christine raised an eyebrow at him. "All right, then."

"You've been procrastinating again," Erik reprimanded her. "Do you at least have a topic to write about yet?"

"Oh, yeah. Definitely." Christine nodded. "I'm doing something about the production in drama class. Except class is almost over and I can't get over there to interview people, which is a problem."

"They rehearse during lunch. You can interview them then." Erik stared at her with very little emotion in his green eyes, and Christine felt pangs of guilt stab at her, remembering how she had betrayed the trust he once had in her.

"Okay, then. I forgot lunch money, anyway." Christine shrugged. "I guess I'd better get back to class."

"Not without this." Erik held out a new reporter's notebook.

Christine grinned, taking it from his gloved hand. "Thanks, I really appreciate that."

She thought she saw something, perhaps a ghost of a smile, flit across his face. "It was no trouble at all." He stepped back into the locker, stooping uncomfortably, and shut the door, disappearing once again.

And so, Christine set off for class again resolutely. Not all was lost- she could still fix the damage and tear down the wall that stood between Erik and her. She would do anything and everything he instructed her to, push every limit possible, show him through her boundless effort that she was sorry and really did need him. After all, if it hadn't been for Erik, she would have very likely still been folding newspapers miserably after school. Christine decided that would skip lunch every day if she had to, but she was going to become the best damn reporter Hayfield had ever seen.

* * *

A/N: Hi, all... I know, it's been forever since I've updated. But here's a list of issues I've been having lately:

Schoolwork. A shortened summer vacation. Computer issues. A cross-country move. Evil people at my new school.

Not to mention lack of inspiration. And it's past midnight right now, so I apologize for any typos that may have slipped through my revision screening. While I'm here, I must also note that the brief song lyrics Bee Diddy sang are not mine; in fact, they belong to the real Bee Diddy, on whom the character is based.

I implore you to review. Cheer me up after facing the evil people.


	9. The Musical's Drama

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own Phantom. Therefore, this is fanfiction and not authorfiction. It would seem obvious to me, but… We must keep the lawyers happy. As a side note, I don't own The Sound of Music or Mission Impossible.

* * *

Chapter Nine

**-The Hayfield Times- Volume 21, Website Edition: November 2, 2005**

**Hayfield's Clocks Go Haywire**

_by Joe Buquet_

_Several complaints of malfunctioning clocks have been issued to Hayfield's administration in the last week._

_ The new school clocks are programmed to display the same exact time as every other clock in the school, according to assistant principal Joe Henfricks. There are still a few glitches in the system, however, and some of the clocks may display an incorrect time._

_ Students and faculty have reported that the clocks have started running backwards, skipped ahead several minutes or hours, and even stopped completely. Henfricks assured the _Times _that this is normal. "It's just the system's way of getting all the clocks to catch up with each other. They won't do anything other than that, so please pay attention to your teachers and not the clocks," Henfricks said._

"I could be enjoying a nice, big, greasy burger right now," Meg complained, squinting in the bright sunlight.

"Please." Christine rolled her eyes. "If we were at lunch, you'd only complain about how gross the food is."

"It's better than starving," Meg insisted.

Christine shrugged. She and Meg were walking down the sidewalk in front of the school. Christine had begged and pleaded and bribed until Meg had agreed to come with her to the little theater to get the scoop on the school production. It was during their lunch time, but Christine planned to just suck it up and wait until that afternoon when somebody would go out and buy Starbucks for the newspaper staff.

Meg cut across the grass to get to the door. "It's cold out here," she complained. "If it's this cold, why can't there be snow?"

"It's not that cold." Christine hurried after her. She pulled one of the doors open and walked into the theatre hall.

Shivering as she followed, Meg continued to gripe. "I'm freezing! Can we go the inside way on our way back?"

Christine glared at her. "If you want to get caught by Mrs. Loupas, then sure."

Mrs. Loupas was a longtime security official of Hayfield High. Any student that knew what was good for them didn't mess with her. Christine's press pass only gave her the freedom to roam the halls during first period, and if Mrs. Loupas caught her wandering around when she was supposed to be in lunch… Well, that wouldn't be good.

Meg grumbled under her breath. "I don't know why I came with you in the first place if you were going to be this mean to me."

"Think of it as a positive experience. Who knows, you could find something to write about," Christine said dryly.

At that moment, two freshman girls came running and skidding out of the band hall that intersected the theatre hall, shrieking dreadfully. One was dragging a chair behind her, and both were clutching clarinets.

"It's mine!" the chair-less girl howled, right on the other girl's tail. "I won the challenge fair and square!"

"You'll never take it from me!" the other girl screamed, shoving the door Christine and Meg had just come through open and running outside.

"Oooooh, freshie band geeks," Meg cackled. "Dibs!" She pulled her reporter's notebook out of her hoodie pocket and ran after them.

Christine rolled her eyes and continued on to the theater. The second she pushed the big door open, a loud screech met her ears. Squinting in the darkened auditorium, Christine wondered if they were killing cats in there. But, to her horror, the loud screech was actually someone singing.

"Shut the door!" A student dressed entirely in black slid down from the sound booth and ran towards her, looking rather hacked off. Christine quickly shut the door behind her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean-" she started to say, but was cut off by the other student.

"This is a closed rehearsal," the student snapped. She was wearing a headset with a microphone and had a flashlight sticking out of her pocket. "We can't afford any disturbances at this time."

"I'm from _The Hayfield Times_," Christine explained. "I was wondering if I could get any information about the production for an article."

"Oh." The student frowned, looking indecisive. "Well… I guess so. As long as you're not interrupting anyone onstage. I'm Erin, the stage manager."

"I'm Christine," Christine introduced herself, "and, as I said earlier, I'm from the _Times_. Are you available for an interview?"

"I'm not," Erin said distractedly, glancing behind her at the stage, "but I can send my ASM down here. Assistant stage manager, you know. Would that be okay?"

"Sure." Christine put on her successful reporter grin, but it quickly turned to a grimace as the warbling person onstage shrieked even louder. Rolling her eyes, Erin the stage manager turned and strode back to the sound booth. As Christine pulled out her notebook and a pencil, she was joined by two girls and a guy who were all wearing headsets and black outfits like Erin's.

"Howdy," the dorkiest girl said cheerfully. "I'm Lynn, the ASM. This is Rachel, the house manager, and Brandon, the assistant house manager."

"_Ace usher_," Brandon corrected. "I'm nobody's assistant."

_Wonderful… theatre people who take their jobs too seriously._ Christine pushed the thought from her mind. "I'm Christine, the reporter who is also nobody's assistant. I was going to publish a little article about the upcoming production. Is it true you guys are putting on _The Sound of Music_?"

A collection of "Yep," "Uh-huh," and "Sure is," was her answer.

Christine glanced toward the stage. "Okay… That's Carlotta Giudicelli, right?"

The theatre operatives' faces turned slightly sour. "Uh… yeah. That would be her," Lynn muttered.

"Is she _supposed_ to be singing that badly?" Christine inquired.

"What do you think?" Rachel snapped. "It's not supposed to sound like we're torturing people in here."

Christine wrote that down.

"Yeah, she's horrible, but she thinks she's so awesome," Lynn put in irritably. "The world's biggest brat. Such a prima donna."

"She always orders all the techies around," Brandon said peevishly. "She thinks she's so much better than we are."

"I guess you don't really like her," Christine inferred amusedly, jotting down notes.

"Oh, really?" Only an actor could pull off as much sarcasm as Lynn ladled onto her words. "Of course we don't like her. She's ruining everything."

"If Mr. Opperly were here, that cow would have never gotten the part," Brandon stated.

Christine looked up. "He's the drama teacher, right?"

"Yeah, but he's out on leave for surgery for his broken arm," Lynn said ruefully. "Thanks to our wonderful Opera Ghost, he had to leave right before we had auditions. The sub destroyed the entire thing."

"How so?" Christine pressed.

Her question was met with silence. The theatre operatives glanced at each other guiltily. Christine smelled a story.

"Is there something going on that the sub doesn't want to get out?"

Lynn shook her head. "No."

"Well..." Brandon began.

"Shut up, Brandon!" Rachel snapped.

The little voice in Christine's head started cackling. She had to go about this carefully…

"I don't want to make you do anything you feel uncomfortable doing," she said casually. "If you don't want to say anything bad about the theatre program, that's fine."

"It's not the program that's the problem," Brandon blurted out. "It's Mrs. Vander and Carlotta."

"Mrs. Vander is the sub?"

"Yeah," Lynn confirmed, glaring at the ace usher, "and she's not doing a very good job so far, but she's only a sub. We should cut her some slack."

"Cut her some slack?" Brandon echoed incredulously. "You must be joking. What she's done is an insult to the arts!"

"You mean, what you _think_ she's done," Rachel corrected in a hushed whisper. "We don't know anything for certain."

Christine smelled a scandal. "Wow, sounds like a sticky situation. Did the sub do something wrong?"

"I'd say so," Brandon scoffed before he could be shushed again. "She's let the entire production go to the dogs."

"If it's that bad…" Christine looked the other two in the eye. "If it's that bad, then shouldn't you do something about it?"  
Lynn huffed in frustration. "The reality is that we can't do anything about it. We're juniors and seniors against an adult. What's done is done, whether it was her fault or not, and there's nothing we can do to change anything."

"Ah…but there is," Christine informed her.

"What?" Lynn snapped.

"The _Times_." Christine put her cards on the table. "You tell me what I need to know, we go to press this afternoon, and tomorrow, everyone will know what the sub did. Students, faculty, and a lot of parents. If it's as bad as you make it out to be, the principal will investigate it."

Her words were once again met with silence, but this time it was a thoughtful silence. Brandon was nodding approvingly, and Lynn and Rachel were swapping a glance.

"Okay…" Rachel paused to collect her thoughts. "Say we give you some info. Can we keep our names out of it?"

"Well… yes." Christine bit her lip. "The newspaper does allow anonymity, but if I don't provide any names, it would seem like I have no evidence for my allegation."

"You can have my name," Brandon stated bravely. "Brandon McKillian, senior and ace usher."

"Let's go somewhere more private to talk," Lynn suggested, her eyes darting from side to side. "These days you can't tell who's working for the enemy…"

Christine resisted the temptation to roll her eyes and followed the theatre operatives along the audience seating and out a side exit. From there the drama nerds proceeded to act like secret agents, ducking and sliding through the hallway, shooting at imaginary evil henchmen, humming the Mission Impossible theme, and waving Christine hurriedly into the drama classroom. Christine thanked herself for not signing up for theatre.

Lynn slammed the door behind them. "Into the stage manager office!"

"You have your own office?" Christine was getting tired of the drama class antics. "We can't just talk here?"

"Of course not," Rachel scoffed. "Don't you journalists know anything?"

The stage manager office was a little closet with a computer in it. It was extremely hot and Christine was starting to feel claustrophobic… not to mention her lunch period was almost over.

"Okay… spill," Christine demanded.

"Right. We held auditions for the play toward the beginning of the year," Brandon began. "That was… what, two days after Mr. Opperly left?"

"Three," Lynn corrected.

"So the sub's listening to everyone," Brandon continued. "People auditioning presented a monologue, sang a prepared song, and read from the script. Nothing unusual or suspicious."

"Carlotta auditioned?" Christine asked, hurriedly scribbling in her notebook again.

"Yeah, and she stunk," Rachel spat distastefully. "Acted like she owned the stage and expected everyone to kiss her feet. She's a horrible actor (way too campy) and a dreadful singer."

"As the ASM, I was on the casting committee," Lynn said with an air of authority. "It was Mrs. Vander, Erin, and me choosing actors for roles, and I can assure you that we didn't cast Carlotta for anything."

"So you rejected her?"

"Yes."

Christine frowned. "Then how'd she end up getting cast as the star?"

"We're not exactly sure what happened," Lynn admitted. "But when the cast lists went up, Carlotta's name was on the top and she was parading around like a peacock."

"Would you say… triumphantly?" Christine inquired.

"Duh," Brandon grunted.

"So can we assume she had something to do with getting the lead role?" Christine continued.

"That's what we all thought," Rachel told her. "We just didn't know how she could've."

"No, wait. I heard her say something that day," Brandon said, frowning in thought. "She was talking to her little clique about her dad called Mrs. Vander the night before… Oh, and Mrs. Vander has a really nice sports car now."

"Are you accusing Carlotta of bribery?" Christine wished she had loads of money to bribe people with.

"Let's face it," Brandon said flatly. "Subs don't get paid squat. She didn't buy that car by herself."

"This is some really good stuff." Christine glanced back over the notes she had taken. "I'll do my best to write it up well and all… I don't suppose you have any records or anything, like score sheets for the auditions?"

"I wrote my audition notes on my math homework," Lynn admitted sheepishly. "I had to turn them in."

"Are there no records of anyone's performance on the auditions?" Christine asked desperately. "None at all? If there aren't, I really don't have anything to back my story up with."

Lynn shrugged apologetically. "Mrs. Vander keeps the official scores somewhere secretly, probably under lock and key."

"You can guess why," Brandon muttered.

At that moment, Lynn shrieked and fell over. "Okay, okay, okay!" she hollered into her microphone, picking herself off the ground. "Jeebus crispies, Erin, I'm coming!"

"Is she screaming at you again?" Rachel rolled her eyes. "I keep telling you, just turn it off like I do and you won't get so many stress pimples."

"Unlike you lazy slackers, _I_ have a job to do!" Lynn snapped, dramatically throwing the office door open.

"You run errands for Carlotta. That's not a real job," Brandon scoffed.

"Carlotta sounds a lot like my old editor," Christine mused out loud, following Lynn as she hurried back to the auditorium.

"Maybe they're related," Lynn muttered, sneaking into the auditorium through another little side door. "Man, sometimes I wish I'd just tried out for the musical like I wanted to in the first place! Then I wouldn't have to deal with the likes of _her._"

"Why didn't you audition?" Christine inquired.

Lynn kept her eyes fixed on the blue carpet of the little theater's aisle. "Can't sing." Christine followed her over to the stage. "What do you want, Carlotta?" Lynn snapped crossly.

"It's about time!" Carlotta, an extremely tall girl with red hair, too much makeup, and an expensive pedicure, snapped back. She was standing at center stage, looking down on the stage manager's assistant. "I shouldn't have to wait this long for service!"

Lynn glared right back up at her. "Well, if you'd just tell me what you want, you wouldn't have to wait so long."

Carlotta kicked a pile of papers off the stage with incredibly good aim; it scattered right into Lynn's face. Christine watched in horror, not believing that a student could be allowed to act this way without a teacher getting involved.

A quick glance told Christine that the pile of papers was the musical's score. She felt a pang of pity for Lynn, who was scrambling around on her hands and knees, trying to gather up the music and looking lost now that the Overture was on the bottom of the pile and the Bows were somewhere in the middle, while Act Two had fallen into the empty orchestra pit.

"How many times have I told you to get this key changed?" Carlotta snapped, making Christine madder by the second. "It's an inhuman key! Nobody could sing this!"

Christine watched Lynn climb down into the pit to retrieve the rest of the score. "Mr. Feld's been busy, Carlotta," she called up wearily, referring to the school's choir teacher. "This can't be too bad, can it? Could you at least stick it out for one more week?" She set the music down at the dusty piano and began to plink out a familiar melody. "Is that so bad?"

Carlotta scrunched up her face and attempted to sing. "_The hiiiills are aliiiii-_" She broke off as her voice cracked. "_Yes,_ it is 'so bad!' _Nobody_ could sing that. And if you knew anything about music, you moron, you'd know that!"

Christine burned with anger as she watched Lynn hastily remove her fingers from the piano keyboard, turning red in embarrassment. And before she could stop herself-

"_The hills are alive with the sound of music, with songs they have sung for a thousand years!_"

All around the theater, heads turned. Actors and techies alike stared at this person who dared to defy Carlotta and did it with a voice that was easily ten times better than that of their leading lady.

When she realized they were staring, Christine panicked and inwardly cursed herself for getting herself into this mess. But nothing bad had happened yet, so she continued to sing. "_The hills fill my heart with the sound of music! My heart wants to sing every song it hears._"

Carlotta stared down at her, speechless but outraged.

"Well," Christine started, suddenly aware that her tongue was too dry to function right, "that wasn't too hard. Julie Andrews didn't seem to have a problem with it either." And she turned tail and ran out of the little theater.

Only when she had gotten into the school's main hallway did she slow down and allow herself a guilty grin. It felt good to sing again, and it had actually gone pretty well! Granted, her voice was a bit rough after not using it and having not warmed up, but she had hit all the notes, and hit them decently. Were she not humble, she would have said it sounded pretty. And, oh, the look on that diva's face!

However, she reminded herself, her little singing adventure was just an additional triumph to her larger goal of finding a story. All she had to do now was write an article, which she would have to write hurriedly after school, or perhaps between classes, since she only had a few short minutes of lunch left.

The idea for the story was brilliant. However, Christine knew that she had very little substantial evidence to back up the claims that her sources in the drama department had made. If only she could get her hands on some official records from the auditions…

Musing over her misfortune, Christine made her way to her locker and opened it to grab a binder and textbook for her next class. However, she was met with a surprise on the locker's shelf.

A red rose with a black ribbon tied in a bow around the long, green stem. There was a note attached, written in a old-fashioned script that she found she recognized:

_Brava, Christine. Here is your reward._

Christine pulled out the large manila folder on which the rose had been sitting. In it, she found several forms with scores and comments… from the musical's auditions.

Sliding the folder carefully into her binder and the rose into a safe place in the corner of her locker, Christine couldn't hold back a sort of awestruck smile. She glanced timidly around the hallway, seeing no one. "Thank you," she murmured quietly.

* * *

A/N: Hi, all. That is, if anyone's still actually reading this. Yes, I _know_ how long it's been since I've updated. Well, I actually don't, but I suppose it's been a number of years. Pathetic, yes, I know. I found this chapter mostly completed, just sitting on my computer, alone and neglected. Thought I'd just finish it up and post it. Of course, the site's changed a bit since I last uploaded something, so… We'll just see how that goes.

Anyway, if you liked it or just want to comment on my long absence, please leave a review. It might inspire me to get back on my Hayfield kick!


	10. The Diva Strikes Back

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Phantom of the Opera_ or _The Sound of Music._ But it would be cool if I did.

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Chapter Ten

**-The Hayfield Times- Volume 21, November 2, 2005**

**Hayfield Accuses!**

_by Christine Daae_

_A number of students involved in Hayfield's winter musical have accused their substitute drama teacher of accepting money from a student in exchange for casting her as the leading role._

_Mr. Dan Opperly, Hayfield's drama teacher, was excited about his choice of __Rodgers and Hammerstein's_ The Sound of Music _for the theatre department's annual winter production. "There are a lot of different roles, so we'll be able to take on a big cast. I'm excited to start auditions," he said at the interest meeting earlier this year._

_Unfortunately, Opperly broke his arm in a mysterious accident involving stage scenery and decided not to return to school until next semester. He approved the administration's selection of Mrs. Deborah Vander as long-term substitute for all drama classes. Vander also took over as head of the winter production._

_Students working within the production who wished to remain anonymous have said that Vander is "not doing a very good job," and that she "destroyed" the whole production. Most alarming is their allegation that Vander took a bribe from Carlotta Giudicelli, senior, and awarded her the role of Maria unjustly._

_Although Giudicelli has played the leading role in a number of other non-musical productions, she scored very low at the auditions in September. Records of the scores and comments from the casting committee show that she was unqualified to play any role in the musical and that nearly 85% of auditioning girls scored better than she did. To the committee's surprise, Vander still chose Giudicelli to play the lead._

_Brandon McKillian, senior and assistant house manager, believes that Giudicelli's father offered Vander a great deal of money to give his daughter the lead. "…her dad called Mrs. Vander... and Mrs. Vander has a really nice sports car now," he told the _Times.

_Despite many students' apparent disgust, Giudicelli will play the part of Maria on the show's opening night this week. By singing in a way that some of her fellow cast members call obnoxious and overconfidently ordering the stage crew around, Giudicelli has earned herself a bad reputation with her peers, many of whom agree that her role was earned unfairly._

_Until this time, the school administration has been unaware of any scandal within the theatre department. It may be assumed, however, that they will want to investigate this serious accusation._

Lounging in her cubicle, Christine admired the giant headline on the latest copy of _The Hayfield Times._ "It looks dramatic, doesn't it?" Her voice sounded loud in the giant journalism classroom, which was devoid of students thirty minutes before school started that morning.

_"One of the advantages of bold print."_

"Yeah, I guess so." Christine glanced up toward the ceiling, from where she assumed the familiar disembodied voice was coming. "So… I'm really, really, super sorry I didn't get you to look at the story before I turned it in. It took me a while to go through those audition records, and then I had to dig up the rest of that research, and it was the last minute, and the editors were screaming at me, telling me I had two minutes or they wouldn't take it, and-"

_"Christine, I'm not angry,"_ the voice interrupted.

"You're not?" Christine stared up at the ceiling in surprise.

_"No. I understand you were pressed for time. Why do you think I would be angry?_"

Christine rolled up the newspaper slowly. "Well, you always proofread my articles and help me revise them. And usually you find a whole lot to fix. I thought you'd be mad that I turned in such a rough product."

The invisible angel was silent for a moment. _"Quite honestly, Christine, it wasn't that bad. A bit biased, I think, but perhaps that's not such a bad thing, given the subject. As for your comma splices, well… that's what those fools in the editor's office are for._"

"Ah. That's true." Christine let the newspaper unroll before rolling it up again. "So it really wasn't that bad?"

_"No. Your writing has improved a great deal since I began working with you."_

Christine grinned. "Yay. Erik, why can't you be my English teacher?"

_"And put dear Mrs. Flipski out of a job? I wouldn't dream of it._" The disembodied voice was laced with a rare hint of humor. Did this mean Erik wasn't angry at her for the fiasco with the mask anymore?

"Oh, right," Christine giggled. "But haven't you ever considered a teaching career? I mean, come on, Erik. You're good at _everything._ You could raise any school's test scores."

_"Well, I would greatly enjoy being a certain sophomore's voice teacher, if only she were not so reluctant to sing."_

Christine twisted the newspaper in her hands, casting about for a new conversation topic. "Hey. Did you know about the audition bribe before I wrote about it?"

_"In fact, I did._"

"Were you going to do anything about it?" Christine inquired, frowning.

The disembodied voice heaved an exasperated sigh. _"I was, but then that horrible excuse for a teacher went and ruined the production to the point where I just couldn't find a way to fix it without getting the police involved. I even knocked a set piece onto her, gave her a serious injury, but she won't take a hint. Now I regret taking that old fool Opperly out of the picture."_

"Am I hearing this right?" Christine asked in mock disbelief. "The _Opera Ghost_ regrets breaking somebody's arm?"

_"Don't tease, Christine. Opperly's budget was going to make the musical look like a joke. I did what I had to in order to preserve what quality exists in this school's theatre department. Of course, now it's going to be worse than I could have ever imagined… I should have researched the candidates for substitute more thoroughly._"

Christine shook her head, spinning around to her computer and opening up a paper she'd been working on for English. "Maybe it's a good thing you're not a teacher. All the kids would annoy you and end up with fractured spines. It's okay to just let someone do their job, you know? Even if it's not done as well as you could do it. Because, let's face it- you do everything perfectly. Nobody could ever live up to your standards. At some point, you just have to step back and let everyone-"

"Who are you talking to?"

Christine screamed and wheeled around. Under a mass of bushy, frizzy, greasy hair, a pair of brown eyes was looking at her over the top of her cubicle. "Joe!" Christine belted out, clutching at her heart. "Don't be such a freaking creeper! You scared me to death!"

"Sorry." The eyes disappeared behind the wall, then reappeared with the rest of grungy Joe Buquet when he shuffled into the cubicle's doorway. He stood there for a moment, swinging his arms back and forth. "So… Who were you talking to?"

"Uh…" Christine glanced at her computer. "I was reading out loud. Looking for typos." She thought she'd read something about journalists doing that once.

"Oh." Joe leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest and looking at her with interest. "Why are you here so early?"

"Why are you?" Christine challenged. She hoped this wouldn't turn into a conversation. Not with Joe Buquet. Not during a chat with the Angel of Music.

Joe grinned at her; his teeth were yellow. "Just got here early, looking for something to do. You interested?"

Christine began gathering up her stuff. "Come back when you can rephrase that sentence," she said angrily as she shouldered her purse.

"Whaaaat? C'mon, Christine, you know I didn't mean it like that." Joe continued to grin, running a hand through his slimy hair. "I just meant-"

"If I were you, I would stop talking." Christine stormed past him on her way out of the cubicle.

"Okay, well… See ya later!"

"Yeah. Whatever." Christine hurried out of the classroom. No sooner had the door shut behind her than her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at it. The caller ID read "Unavailable."

The text message read:

_Don't let him bother you. We'll talk later. My standards are not that high._

_ -AoM_

Christine texted back "_Yes, they are!_" and turned off her phone, smirking with satisfaction at having the last word. As she walked down the hallway, she noticed that an unusual number of school newspapers were floating around. The _Times_ was a popular icon of student life, but it was never _this_ popular. Whoever was downstairs at the sales table must have been having a field day…

"Christine!" A girl from her bus jogged over to her. "Is it true? That whole thing about the drama teacher taking bribes? Did it really happen?"

And then there was a guy on her other side, asking, "Is that why my girlfriend didn't get a part in the musical?"

And another person, and another, and even more- "What's the admin going to do about it?" "How could that happen?" "They should fire that sub. Immediately." "Is the play still opening on schedule?" "Are teachers _allowed_ to take bribes like that?"

"Whoa, hey!" Christine forced her way out of the mob, turning back only when she was sure she had air to breathe. "All I know is in that article. If you have questions… feel free to ask Mrs. Vander." She continued down the hallway, unable to suppress a huge smile.

"Good morning, Meg!" she trilled when she saw her blonde friend waiting, arms crossed and foot tapping, by a vending machine.

"For you, maybe," Meg grumbled. "You pulled off the world's most popular story and I got stuck with freshman band geeks."

"Aw, come on. You're not _jealous_, are you?" Christine wheedled, heading towards her locker.

"_No,_" Meg replied vehemently. "In fact, I am very happy _not_ to be in your shoes right now."

"Why's that?" Having reached her locker, Christine twisted the combination lock and opened it.

Meg picked at her fingernails. "_Because…_ when Carlotta Giudicelli finds you, she's going to be pissed."

"You mean _if_ she finds me," Christine corrected her. "It's a big school. There are over two thousand students here. It wouldn't be easy for her to track me down."

"No, Christine… I mean _when._" Meg took a step backward.

Christine glared at her. "Can't you just be supportive?"

_WHAM._

"Aaah!" Christine jumped back as someone slammed her locker door shut. The culprit, one Carlotta Giudicelli, towered over her, absolutely seething.

"Who do you think you are?" Carlotta screamed. "Shoving your nose into people's private business and then spreading it around the school! Don't you know how damaging this is to my reputation? Everybody's going to hate me now, and it's all your fault!"

Christine backed up a few steps. "Whoa, Carlotta, chill! It's just a school newspaper."

"No, it's just _you_ spreading vicious lies about me!" Carlotta snapped, taking a step forward for every step Christine took back.

"So you deny it?" Christine raised an eyebrow. "Even though the evidence is stacked against you?"

"Deny it? It's a rumor that people made up because they're jealous of my talent," Carlotta sniffed, flipping her vibrant red hair over her shoulder. "Now, you listen, and listen good."

"Well!" Meg piped up.

"Shut up!" Carlotta snarled.

"Ooookay. You're on your own, Christine." Meg patted her friend on the shoulder and walked quickly away.

Carlotta turned back to Christine. "You think you're all that. Well, I have a newsflash for _you_, little miss reporter- you're just an ugly, unpopular _toad_ who's getting a big head because she wrote some brave words in a dinky newspaper. When your fifteen minutes of fame are over, everyone's going to forget about you! You're just going to sink back into obscurity and drown in the pit of miserable unpopularity, and I! will! laugh!"

Christine felt rather windswept, but nevertheless replied, "At least I'm not the one who had to bribe my drama teacher because my singing sounds like a dying cat and nobody would let me anywhere near the musical."

Carlotta's eyes flew open wide, and she stood silently for a moment, gaping at Christine's audacity.

"Well, then." Christine adjusted her purse on her shoulder. "I'll just be-"

_Smack!_ In a flurry of pink fingernail polish, Carlotta's palm cracked across Christine's cheek. Christine staggered back, gasping and clutching her face.

"_Nobody_ talks to me like that!" Carlotta screeched.

"Carlotta… You can't…" Christine couldn't find any words to pacify the furious diva. "You'll get in so much…"

Afterwards, Christine realized that she should have fled the scene as soon as she saw the purse soaring through the air. But in that moment, she could only stare in disbelief as Carlotta swung her gigantic bag and it crashed into her forehead.

"Aaagh!" It was like a brick flying into her skull. What on earth did Carlotta have in her bag that was so heavy? Why was she going so insane? These thoughts flashed through Christine's mind as she fell backward and hit the ground. Dizzily, she climbed up onto her hands and knees, only to get knocked down again as Carlotta tackled her.

"I'll teach you to write stupid crap about me!" Carlotta screamed, seizing a handful of Christine's hair and yanking hard.

"Carlotta- _Ow!_ Stop it!" Feeling as though her scalp was going to separate from her pounding skull, Christine looked desperately around for help. Surely someone would intervene? Meg? Another student? A teacher?

A group of students had formed around the dramatic catfight, but nobody seemed intent on stopping it. Many were shouting, cheering, egging the two girls on. Most were videoing the whole thing with their phones.

"Carlotta! Get off me!" Christine hollered, trying to dislodge the shrieking diva, but Carlotta started beating her already-aching forehead into the linoleum. Well, enough was enough.

"_Hurrgh!_" Christine heaved, rolling onto her back and crushing Carlotta beneath her. Carlotta screamed yet again and locked her arms around Christine's neck in a strangling hold, but Christine jammed her elbow into the senior's ribs and put an end to that nonsense immediately.

Christine scrambled up and away, clutching at the lockers as her head spun mercilessly. "Leave me alone!" she spat. "For crying out loud, someone get a teacher!"

But Carlotta wasn't done. She jumped to her feet, and in a moment she had one of her expensive pumps in her hand, the three-inch heel aimed toward Christine.

"_Mon Dieu_," Christine hissed under her breath, genuinely terrified of the mad gleam in her attacker's eyes. She turned tail and ran.

"Get back here!" Carlotta screamed, pursuing her through the hallway.

Even though she was still dizzy, Christine managed to keep far ahead of Carlotta. She turned a corner, stumbled down a staircase, dodged other students until she reached the end of the building that was under construction and blocked off. The diva's shrieks had faded away long ago, but still Christine ducked under the caution tape, seeing in her mind those three-inch heels aiming for her heart.

A streak of black flashed before her eyes, and then there was a hand in a leather glove over her mouth, jerking her backwards. Christine screamed, though it was muffled by the hand, as she was dragged into a closet and the door shut, leaving her in pitch black darkness with whoever had apprehended her.

_"Be quiet,"_ a familiar voice hissed in her ear, so close that she could feel the puff of hot breath. Christine's eyes flared open wide as the hand left her mouth.

_Click._ A dangling lightbulb sprang to life overhead, illuminating the dingy and dirty closet. Blinking in the sudden light, Christine turned around and looked up into the two most beautiful green eyes she had ever seen, one of which was framed by white porcelain. "Erik…"

"Are you all right?" the Phantom of the Opera breathed, staring intently at her.

"I'm fine." Christine shook her head a few times. "Just… freaked out. And dizzy."

She froze, heart pounding, as Erik brushed her bangs aside, frowning in concern. "You're bleeding."

"Really?" Christine winced as he pressed against a tender spot on her forehead. "That crazy freak… She hit me with her purse. It felt like it weighed a ton! I don't know, maybe the zipper sliced my forehead open. She was so ridiculous. I still can't believe it."

"Watch my finger. Don't move your head," Erik ordered, holding up his index finger and moving it back and forth in front of Christine's face. Obediently, Christine followed his finger with her eyes while he stared into them.

"Am I dying?" she asked after a moment.

"No," Erik responded, turning his attention back to Christine's forehead. "Do you still feel dizzy?"

"Not as much," Christine told him. "It's going away. My head really hurts, though."

"Understandably," Erik muttered. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his patient's cut. "As far as I can tell, you don't have a concussion or any other serious head wounds. You do have some rather purple bruises on your face…"

"Great." Christine scowled.

Erik looked her in the eye. "It could be worse."

Guiltily, Christine looked away. "Oh. Yeah."

"Did you have to insult her?" Erik reprimanded, dabbing at the cut again. "You couldn't have just walked away?"

"Well, what would you have done?" Christine returned, glaring at him.

"I would have strangled her with a Punjab lasso," he replied casually.

Christine couldn't tell if he was being serious or not.

"You should go to the nurse and get some ice," Erik said softly, tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket. He stroked Christine's curly hair and cupped her cheek in his hand. "Try not to anger any more divas."

Hypnotized by his gentle touch and warm, soft voice, Christine could only stutter, "Okay."

"You should go." The Phantom sounded regretful as he took his hand away. "Before you're missed."

"Do I have to?" Christine found herself completely unwilling to step away from her dark guardian angel.

"Yes." Erik reached up and pulled the string to switch the light off. As Christine turned, feeling in the darkness for the doorknob, he spoke again. "Rest assured, Christine, that Miss Giudicelli will regret ever laying a hand on you."

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A/N: Well, at this rate, I might finish this story by the time I'm fifty. Maybe. Thanks for reading! You're really cool. Please leave a comment before you, let me know how I did and all that. Just a hint: the speed at which I update is directly related to the number of comments I get. Just sayin'. Wink wink.

A note: The website has very graciously deleted some of the formatting of the previous chapters. If you had read this story early and found that my story lacked some necessary transitions, that's why. I went through and fixed it, though, so we should be all good. Also did some minor revisions. Nothing too huge, just the odd spelling error, random capitalized letter, little things that made me say, "What was I thinking three years ago?" All that good stuff. I may or may not do some major content revision. If you have an opinion, feel free to let me know! Once again, thanks for reading!


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